


Strange to Know Nothing, Never to be Sure

by IDreamOnlyOfYou (lauren3210)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post Season 2, Slow Build, five times fic, idek what this is, sterek are already canon in my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauren3210/pseuds/IDreamOnlyOfYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds himself working with Derek much more often than he'd like, or at least that's what he tells himself.  And in all honesty, he would be totally fine with it, if only Derek could learn what personal space meant.</p><p>Or</p><p>The fives times that Derek accidentally touches Stiles' ass, and the one time he does it totally on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is my first Sterek fic, and I'm really hoping I got the characterisation right! Un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own. If you see any, let me know, I'll fix them!
> 
> Title from the poem _Ignorance_ , by Philip Larkin.

“Why is this always happening to me?” Stiles slowly paced the length of the abandoned warehouse, his arm held out stiffly by his side. “I mean, I know why I'm the one who always has to do this -” he gestured to his outstretched hand, “- but what I really want to know is why is it always me who ends up carting around people who smell like death. Because seriously, I think the smell is starting to affect my olfactory sense, like, permanently damaging it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced.

“Shut up, Stiles. Aren't you supposed to be concentrating?”

Stiles turned round to glare at the pale and sick looking werewolf currently slumped against a pile of crates. “I _am_ concentrating, thank you very much, _this_ is how I concentrate, so how about you shut up for a change and let me do what I need to do to get this damn thing to work.”

He ignored the fact that Derek's return glare was so much more intimidating than his own and turned his attention back to the small bag in his hand, sighing loudly. “Great. This always happens, why can't there just be enough of this stuff?” He poured the rest of the black ash into the palm of his outstretched hand and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Okay, Stiles, you got this, just believe.” He stretched the vowels out and started walking again, his eyes still closed. The powder slid slowly through his fingers until finally there was nothing left. He stopped, peaked an eye open, and let out a whoop as he saw that the makeshift circle had connected itself.

“Great. Now we're stuck here.”

Derek's voice cut into Stiles' victory dance, and Stiles plastered on a smile as he turned to face him again. “Actually, it's only you who's stuck here, I can just hop over this line whenever I damn well like.” He walked over to his hastily thrown backpack and held it up. “If you want, I can go right now,” he offered pleasantly. Derek glowered at him, sweat dripping down his temple. “Yep, that's what I thought,” Stiles said cheerfully, opening his bag and rummaging through it. “Come on, show me.”

Derek lifted up his ripped t-shirt and Stiles sucked in a breath as he took in the four long ragged slash marks traveling the length of Derek's stomach and chest. He swallowed noisily and sank down to his knees next to Derek, still rooting around in his bag.

“It's not the blood,” Stiles explained as he notices Derek watching him. His fingers closed around a jar and he pulled it out, diving his hand back in to find the rest of what he needed. He should really make a more organized first-aid kit at some point. “Although, the smell of it kind of turns my stomach, did you know that blood kind of smells like burnt chocolate?” Derek raised one eyebrow but didn't say anything in response. “Of course you know, because your sense of smell is way better than mine. But it's not the blood. Or the smell of the blood, even though it's gross. No, what freaks me out is,” Stiles paused for breath as he finally dug out a bottle of water and a small bowl. “What freaks me out – and when I say freak I really mean it just makes me want to puke – is the way the skin peels back at the edges. Skin just... It shouldn't do that, you know?” His eyes flicked up to the wounds on Derek's chest again and his fingers shook slightly as he opened the lid on the jar.

Derek's nose twitched, and he shifted slightly in his slumped position on the collapsing crates. “That's... What is that.”

“Why do you always manage to make your questions sound like statements?” Stiles rolled his eyes as he sprinkled some of the yellow powder into the bowl, adding a few drops of water into it. “Relax, I know what I'm doing.” He stuck his fingers into the bowl and mixed the ingredients into a sticky, mustard color paste. He reached out to touch Derek, but a hand flashed out, grabbing his wrist, fingers tightening in a vice like grip.

“What are you doing.” Derek tried to scramble back slightly, and Stiles would have laughed at the pathetic movement if it didn't feel like the bones in his wrist were going to snap at any second.

“Oh my God, would you at least just trust me on this? I'm actually trying to help you right now.”

Derek stared at him for a moment, before slowly dipping his chin once in acknowledgement. His fingers loosened their hold on Stiles' wrist and his hand flopped down to the ground.

Stiles placed his other hand down on Derek's chest, over his heart, the only place currently unmarked by slashes. “This... might sting a bit, okay a lot, but then it'll get better okay so you just need to lie still.” 

Stiles brought his paste covered fingers up to the first gouge, starting just underneath Derek's collar bone and continuing down in a horizontal line to his ribs. The wounds were deep, blood still oozing out, although nowhere near as much as before. Stiles shivered; if the claws had entered his human flesh like they were supposed to, he would have bled out and died by now. The fact that Derek had stood in front of him and taken the blow instead was absolutely the only reason why he was here now, kneeling on the floor in a crappy abandoned warehouse, a growling werewolf beneath his hands.

They had discovered that scratches from an Alpha took a lot longer to heal the week before, when Erica and Boyd had stumbled through the door to the abandoned subway, mumbling about another pack in the woods before passing out from blood loss. It had been a total fluke that Stiles had even been there to witness it, having decided it was time to do something about the weird stand off between Scott and Derek since that whole thing with Gerard. They had just started to actually communicate (read: Derek had slammed Stiles up against the dank wall while Stiles spat sarcastic comments out a mile a minute) when Isaac had shouted to Derek at the same time as the door had been flung open. Stiles had stayed up against the wall as Derek dragged Erica and Boyd over to the sofa, barking at Isaac to go see if they'd been followed. After watching Derek break Boyd's arm and Erica's leg to start the healing process, the next day had seen Stiles searching the internet, determined to find some other way to deal with Alpha wounds. If Scott got hurt, Stiles didn't think he'd have either the strength or the stomach to break anything.

Derek's back arched as Stiles' fingers pressed against the wound, and Stiles leaned down hard on his other hand, trying to keep the werewolf still as he slid the paste into the gash, spreading it down the length of it. Air hissed between Derek's clenched teeth, and Stiles found himself murmuring wordless comforting sounds as he moved on to the next ragged tear. By the time he got to the last scratch, Derek had relaxed beneath him, his breathing easier and his eyes back to their usual blue-green. Stiles removed his hand from Derek's chest to peel down the waistband of his jeans, checking to make sure that he got the paste right to the end of the wound, blushing furiously as he felt Derek's gaze on him. Finally, he sat back, wiping his hand on his t-shirt and pulling out a bunch of rolled bandages from his bag.

“It feels... what is that stuff?” Derek asked – actually asked, which was a first as far as Stiles could remember – as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. 

Stiles helped him pull off the tattered remains of his t-shirt and set about wrapping the bandages around the wounds, which had already stopped bleeding. “It's Aconitum Ferox, it's a special type of wolfsbane from India. It's supposed to help make the blood clot, as well as numb the area, take the pain away.” Stiles secured the end of the bandage and knelt back on his heels, picking up his stuff and ramming them all back in the rucksack. “It's not as effective as jump-starting the healing process, but breaking bones is your specialty, not mine, so I have to use what works for me.”

Derek was quiet for a moment, staring at Stiles so intensely that Stiles felt a blush crawling up his neck. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, waiting for whatever derisive comment was about to come his way.

“Where did you get the idea?” Derek asked instead, and Stiles' eyes opened in shock at the surprising gentleness of the Alpha's voice.

“Researched it, how else d'you think?” Stiles fell over his words slightly in his shock. “Then the other day when Scott got an arrow shot into his shoulder by those hunters, he let me experiment on him. Doesn't work on me though, even though Wikipedia says it used to be used on humans as pain relief, but you can never really trust anything Wikipedia says anyway, so um. Yeah.” 

Stiles wasn't oblivious of the fact that as soon as he'd mentioned Scott's name, Derek's face had closed up again, his jaw clicking as he clenched his teeth together. He sighed and stood up, his shoulders aching from dragging Derek around (again) as they ran away from the Alpha pack, pulling something out of the bag and sticking it into the waistband at the back of his jeans. 

Stiles should really just stop trying to patch up all the problems between all the damn werewolves in Beacon Hills. If he hadn't been coming to try to talk to Derek again tonight, he wouldn't have found himself being dragged down an alley by the back of his hoodie. Stiles had watched in horror as the Alpha who had grabbed him raised his claws, ready to swipe them across Stiles' neck, and for once in his life Stiles couldn't think of a word to say. A growl had reverberated down between the two buildings and then suddenly Stiles was staring at Derek's back. The other Alpha went flying back as Derek slammed his hands into his chest, but not before his clawed hand had raked across Derek's front. Stiles had caught Derek as he'd fallen back, the deep lacerations already pouring copious amounts of blood. Slinging one of Derek's arms over his shoulders, Stiles had staggered back out of the alley and through the maze of warehouses, until Derek's feet had started tripping from all the blood loss and Stiles realised he couldn't hope to outrun a pack of Alphas. He'd stumbled into the nearest open door and dropped Derek on a pile of crates, before pulling out his emergency bag of Mountain Ash.

He would have thought the pack would have found them by now, it's not like he'd done anything to hide their scent as they'd fled.

“What do you think you are doing.”

The statements were back, as well as the threatening hand on the back of his neck, and Stiles tried not to roll his eyes. Well okay no, he didn't try at all, in fact he made a big show of it as he looked back at Derek's furious face.

“I'm going to check to see if it's all clear, what does it look like?” Stiles hissed, one foot coming back down from where it was raised over the line of ash on the floor.

“No. Remove the barrier. I'll check.” Derek pressed on his neck slightly, and Stiles' knees bent slightly in response. Which was, um. Weird.

“Well that's just a ridiculous plan, but then, most of your plans are ridiculous so I have no idea why I'm even surprised.” Stiles snapped back, the heat from Derek's fingers making him uncomfortably aware of the fact that Derek was half naked.

“What if they're still out there, who can sense them better, you or me?” Derek growled.

“What about the fact that you can still barely stand upright? Who can currently move faster, you or me?” 

Stiles glared at Derek, lifting his arm up to knock Derek's hand from his neck. Derek wobbled on his feet from all the blood loss, and Stiles used the opportunity to jump over the barrier with both feet. Derek reached out his hand, as though he was about to grab Stiles by whatever he could reach and drag him back, but his fingers stopped just shy of the line. 

Stiles smirked. “That's right Derek, stay, there's a good boy!”

“Stiles.” Derek's eyes flashed red.

“Don't be such a sourwolf, I'll be right back.” 

Stiles walked quietly towards the still open door - not that tiptoeing would stop a werewolf from hearing him move anyway – and poked his head around the corner. Dusk had turned into night while they had been holed up in the warehouse, and it was too dark for Stiles to see anything much. He strained his ears, hoping to hear at least something that would tell him which way they were coming from, his hand inching behind his back, fingers closing around metal. He heard nothing, so he stepped out further into the open, waiting to see what would happen.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and Stiles squeaked, spinning around on the spot and yanking his hand out from behind his back, pointing it at his assailant.

“Jesus, Stiles! Why do you have a gun?”

“Isaac? Oh thank God!” Stiles looked down at his hand, fingers trembling around the pistol grip. “Oh. Yeah, Allison gave it to me, just in case, you know? What are you doing here?”

“Do you even know what you're doing with that thing?” Isaac eyed the glock warily, as though it was going to go off at any moment.

“My Dad's the sheriff, remember, I know my way around guns.” Stiles flicked the safety back on and tucked the gun back into his waistband. “How did you know to come here?”

“Felt it.” Isaac shrugged, as though it was simple, but if Stiles thought this whole knowing when your pack was in trouble thing was weird, he didn't comment on it. He'd save that for another time when they weren't possibly surrounded by Alphas. Stiles has his priorities straight.

“Can you sense anyone close by?” Stiles asked, and when Isaac shook his head, he breathed out a sigh of relief. “Derek's in here.” He nodded at the warehouse he'd just vacated and started walking back towards it, Isaac trailing him.

Derek was pacing the length of the warehouse, his feet only just on his side of the barrier. As Stiles and Isaac walked in, his eyes snapped up to look at them, his eyes tinged with red. Stiles looked at his chest, noticing that Derek had stripped off the bandages, leaving four lines of pale pink in the place of where the scratches had been. Derek was still looking a bit pale, and Stiles opened his mouth to tell him he needed to eat and drink something.

“Stiles.” Derek ground out. Okay, maybe not then. “Undo the barrier. Now.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and knelt down by the barrier. He flicked his wrist and a section of the powder blew apart, undoing the spell.

“Isaac, did you come across anything out there.” Derek asked his beta, stepping over the line of ash.

“Just one scent, down an alley a few warehouses over. It didn't follow your trail.”

Derek nodded. “Good. At least that means it's not here right now. We need to leave before it comes back with reinforcements.” He bent down and grabbed Stiles by his arm, holding his other hand out towards Isaac.

“Hey! Watch the unnecessary touching!” Stiles groused, over the sound of clinking metal.

“See you at school, Stilinski,” Isaac muttered, before taking off through the warehouse door.

“Where are you... yeah, fine! See you there!” Stiles tried and failed to get his arm out of Derek's grip, stumbling over his feet as the werewolf pulled him outside and down through a series of alleys until they came across Derek's car.

“Get in.” Derek planted Stiles next to the passenger door and moved to the trunk. He disappeared inside for a second and came back out in a clean t-shirt.

“My Jeep's here, I need to drive her home.”

“I'll pick it up for you later, just get in the car.” Derek opened the door and shoved Stiles inside, slamming it shut behind him.

“Hey, what did I just say about the unnecessary touching?”

“Stiles, everything with you is necessary.” Derek slid into the driver's seat and started the car.

“You're gonna need to eat something soon, to get your blood level back up,” Stiles said, watching the street lights flicker past his window.

“I know.”

“And you're gonna need to bring my Jeep back before morning, because if my Dad sees it not there when he gets home from work, he's gonna flip.”

“I know.”

“How did Isaac know to come looking for us? I mean, I know you probably told him you were coming to meet me, but was he already hovering around somewhere or...?”

“He felt it.”

Stiles blew out a breath. “Well, this conversation has been very illuminating, thanks. Really.”

Derek tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “We can sense when each other is hurt, or in danger. Usually it's stronger for me, as I'm the Alpha, but Isaac is very sensitive when it comes to these things, so he feels it more than either Boyd or Erica.”

Stiles watched Derek's profile for a moment, stunned into silence for a change. He thought that was probably the most words he had ever heard Derek say in one go. “Thank you,” he whispered eventually, grateful that for once his questions had been answered without any threats of violence. Derek's eyes flicked to his and then back at the road in front of him, and he nodded curtly.

Stiles glanced at the clock on the dashboard as Derek pulled into his driveway. “Huh, it's gone midnight,” he muttered quietly to himself. Derek looked over at him, an eyebrow raised in a question. “It's my birthday,” Stiles smiled slightly and opened the door. “You'll bring my Jeep back before morning, right?” Derek nodded again and Stiles climbed out of the car.

He heard the camaro back out of the driveway as he fished in his back pocket for his keys. He let himself in, grabbed some cookies from the kitchen and made his way upstairs, turning on the light in his room and flopping down on his bed. The adrenaline from earlier was still buzzing through him, making him jittery, unable to keep still. He moved to his desk, turning on his computer and spinning on the chair as he waited for it to boot up, his fingers tapping an uncoordinated rhythm on his knee. He flipped through the tabs he had bookmarked; he wanted to continue his research into the various uses of aconite, but he couldn't sit still long enough. He got up and started cleaning his room, gathering a pile of laundry and taking it downstairs to start a load, spending time fiddling with all the dials and shaking the box of powder, before going into the kitchen and doing some washing up.

Finally the adrenaline started to dissipate, and he stretched gratefully through a yawn as he mounted the stairs again. He barely made it past his door when an arm snaked out and grabbed him, pushing him up against the wall. Stiles yelped, and Derek slammed his hands on the wall on each side of Stiles' head and leaned in close.

“Derek, what...?”

“I brought your Jeep back,” Derek said, the words gritting out through his clenched teeth. “The keys are on your desk.”

“Um. Thanks?” Stiles heard the wobble in his voice, but he figured he could be forgiven for that, because he had no idea what was going on here.

Derek slid one of his hands down the wall, stopping at Stiles' waist. Stiles felt his face go hot and his breathing start to come out in sharp gasps as Derek leaned closer, his chest touching against Stiles'. He jumped slightly as he felt Derek's hand slide across the bare skin between his t-shirt and jeans, the hot pads of his fingers sending tingling sensations to places Stiles would really prefer not to think about right this very second. He felt a tug on his waistband, and he squeaked – actually squeaked – as he felt fingers graze along the top of his ass.

“Um.” He said eloquently, his arms flapping uselessly by his sides as he dithered between wanting to push Derek away and pull him closer.

Then suddenly Derek moved away, and dangling his hand in front of Stiles' face.

“These things?” He said, shaking the gun slightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Never helpful.”

Derek stepped away, putting the gun in his own waistband as he moved towards the open window. Stiles opened his mouth, wanting to demand the gun back, but no sound came out. Derek paused with one leg out the window and looked back at him. “Happy Birthday, Stiles,” he said softly, and then he was gone.

Stiles stood still for a minute, willing his blood to start flowing back up towards his brain, before moving to sink onto his bed. His hand brushed something hard, and he looked down. On the covers was an old book, blackened around the edges, the cover peeled and smoke-stained.

The various types of Aconite, and its uses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I probably should have warned in the first chapter that updates might be a bit sporadic; I have a crazy busy RL that just doesn't seem to understand the importance of fandoms. So, I'm sorry for the wait, and I hope it's worth it :)

Derek was pissed.

Not that this was unusual; it was actually pretty much his day-to-day emotion, but this time he was really fucking pissed. He'd had a plan, a good one, and the last two weeks of having to deal with Scott and Uncle Peter and the Argents would have all been worth it once the night was over and there was one less member of the Alpha pack.

But then of course, because this is Derek's _life_ , Stiles had come along and gotten right in the middle of everything and ruined the entire plan. And it had been a good one, damn it.

_____

 

“We need to separate them, we can't take them on all together.” Peter sat on the threadbare couch in the abandoned subway, lounging back and looking for all the world as though he was gracing the finest restaurant with his presence.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Derek gritted out between his teeth, leaning back against the dirty wall with his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you actually have anything useful to add?”

Peter sighed. “You ever hear the expression 'dumb but pretty', Derek? Because I'm almost certain your picture would be right underneath the description of it in a dictionary. Oh stop pouting,” he rolled his eyes at his nephew's glare (which, really, he should work on, because it's long since stopped scaring _anybody_ ), “of course I have a plan.” He smiled toothily at Derek, his grin widening as he watched the glare become more pronounced. “This is usually the part where you use your manners and thank me for coming to your rescue.”

“How about you tell me the plan first, and I'll decide if its worth anything.” Derek slid his gaze over to Isaac, who sighed and got up off the couch to go find Boyd and Erica.

“I take it manners is something we're still working on, then,” Peter murmured, using a fingernail to pick at his teeth, waiting for the ragtag group of children to come and watch his genius taking place in person. The door of the train car creaked open and Isaac, Erica and Boyd all filed out, standing close to Derek and turning to face him, and Peter rolled his eyes at their obvious display. Why Derek had chosen these three for his pack was beyond him. Although, as Boyd looked him steadily in the eye, neither challenging nor submissive, Peter could silently agree that maybe Derek had made the right choice there. Certainly better than the other two, and infinitely better than Jackson.

“So, we need to separate them. And for that, we need help.”

Derek shifted against the wall, his frown deepening. “Help? From who, exactly?”

“From the Hunters, obviously,” Peter replied blandly, absently checking his fingernails, as though he had just suggested a pleasant walk through the woods.

“No.” Derek ground out, his gaze shifting away as though he had already decided the conversation was over.

Peter sighed again and stood up, brushing down his tailored pants and deep red shirt. “Fine, Derek, don't take my advice. I'm not part of your pack, I could leave whenever I wanted. This is your fight, not mine, I was just trying to help.”

“I don't need help like that,” Derek turned to his pack of children. “Go, you'll be late for school.”

The three betas shrugged and picked up their school bags, trailing up the steps and into the early morning sun. Peter watched them go, then turned to Derek one last time. “Yes, I can see you have everything handled perfectly, Derek. What chance have a pack of Alphas got against a bunch of school-aged misfits?” He pulled his leather coat over his shoulders and walked towards the door. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind,” he said, not looking back as he swept gracefully out of the door.

Derek spent the next few days pacing up and down the length of the abandoned subway they now called home, wracking his brains to come up with an alternative way to take away the threat of the Alpha pack. The idea of having to admit that Peter might be right grates on his nerves, leaving them raw and sensitive, and by the time he has come to the same conclusion Derek is more than just a little bit annoyed. He growled, grabbed his leather jacket and his keys and set off into town.

He parked in the school lot and got out, leaning back against the car as he watched the kids pile out of the doors with a collective relief so strong it almost made him choke. He saw Scott emerge on the tail of the group, his eyes watching mournfully as Allison stalked towards her car and drove off without a backwards glance in his direction. The boy was so busy watching his ex-girlfriend that he let out a surprised yelp when he turned around and found Derek standing just behind him.

“Dude! Do you know how creepy it is that you're always here?” Scott tried to shove past him, but Derek put a hand on his shoulder. Scott scowled, and Derek removed his hand, placing it in his pocket and stepping back slightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” Derek said, his back teeth already threatening to clench together in irritation.

Scott shook his head and veered around him, walking up to Stiles' Jeep and throwing his bag through the open window. “I told you, you're not my Alpha, you can't give me orders, so stop trying.”

Derek's teeth clenched together with an audible snap, taking a deep breath and blowing it sharply through his nose in an effort to keep himself calm. “And I'm not ordering, I'm asking.”

Scott sighed. “What exactly are you asking?”

“I need you to talk to Argent for me, get him to help us take down the Alpha Pack.”

Scott raised his eyebrows. “You do realise they're only here because of you?” Derek said nothing, just stared at the kid in front of him. Eventually, Scott caved. “Fine. I'll ask him. I don't think he's going to want to help you though.”

“Just ask him to meet with me. The Alphas aren't just a threat to me, they're a threat to the whole town. Making my life more difficult isn't going to keep people any more safe.”

Scott nodded, then looked over Derek's shoulder. Derek turned and saw Stiles pushing his way through the double doors, tripping down the steps as he rummaged in his backpack. “I'll come find you once I've seen Mr Argent,” Scott said, and Derek nodded his thanks at the kid before walking quickly back to his car.

_____

Argent had seemed warily open to meeting with Derek a week later, as long as the location was in a mutually safe area. Derek suggested the warehouse where they had fought against Gerard, and Argent agreed, informing him (through Scott) that he would be bringing three men along with him. When Derek arrived at the meeting place with Isaac, Erica and Boyd in tow, he was surprised to find Scott there too. He wasn't standing with the Hunters, but he had also been pretty clear that he wasn't a part of Derek's pack either, and Derek found himself wondering which side Scott would be on if this whole evening turned into a fight to the death. He was pretty certain it wouldn't be the side of the werewolves; there was no way he could get back into Allison's pants if he helped kill her father.

Luckily, Scott didn't have to make a decision, and the night-time rendezvous with a group of trigger-happy hunters ended on a mutually agreed upon plan, the details surprisingly hashed out without the need for either claws or wolfsbane bullets, and the plan was set for the following weekend.

There were five Alphas in the pack, all older and stronger than Derek and all loyal to each other, making it impossible for Derek's pack to take on more than one at a time. Argent agreed that with his team of hunters following him, they would be able to create enough of a distraction for at least three of the pack, while Derek and Peter tried to lure the others into the woods to fight them one-on-one. It still didn't guarantee a victory, but at least Derek stood a fair chance, and the hunters were reasonably confident that they would be able to dispatch a couple during the distraction. Derek secretly didn't agree, but he wisely didn't say anything.

_____

So the plan was set, and everybody was playing their parts. Derek had let the Alpha Pack chase him close to the school and into the waiting arms of the hunters and his betas, who had managed to corner three of them behind the school gym. Peter had turned up just in time and lured one of the remaining two Alphas down the tree-lined lanes, leaving the last one to follow Derek into the woods.

The sound of gunshots and snarls faded behind him as he raced through the trees, the hairs on the back of his neck letting him know that he was still being followed. Werewolves may all prefer to hunt in woods, but this was Derek's territory; he had grown up in these woods. He had the clear advantage in this fight.

Or at least he did, until a familiar scent wafted over from less than a dozen feet in front of him, and he swore loudly.

Derek had been moving quickly, not needing to pay attention to his surroundings, his feet knowing through muscle memory the quickest way to get to the ideal location for the fight. He had kept his attention on what was following him, making sure that the distance between him and the lone Alpha neither widened nor closed. So, when that honey-grass-orange smell wafted over him, Derek stumbled in surprise, skidding to a halt in the crinkling leaves beneath his feet.

Just in time, he heard a snarl behind him and he ducked, dropping to one knee and bracing his hands against the ground as the Alpha sailed over his head, coming to a crouch in front of him. It was the female Alpha, her long hair hanging in shaggy clumps over her shoulders and around her face, giving her a feral look. Her eyes glowed scarlet, her teeth lengthening past her lips, and Derek felt himself return the look, readying himself for the fight that was about to start. He saw her shoulder muscles bunch as she prepared to leap at him, when a beam of weak light hit her hair, blinding Derek before he moved out of its path.

“Holy shit...”

Derek groaned internally as the Alpha whipped round to stare at Stiles, sliding around so that she could see them both. 

“Um, you guys just go back to whatever it was you were doing, I'll just back away slowly and you can pretend I was never here, okay?”

Stiles' voice wobbled as he stepped back from the scene in front of him, his shaking hands making the flash light he held flicker across both the werewolves. The female let out a sound somewhere between a snarl and a laugh and dove for him, and Derek leapt forward. He grabbed her hair and yanked her backwards, rolling down to the ground and throwing her as hard as he could over his shoulders. He heard a tree creak as she smashed into it, and he hoped he'd broken enough bones to give him time to get Stiles out of the way. He swung back up from the ground and ran forwards, hauling Stiles up by his arms from where he had tripped over his backpack as he'd tried to scramble back.

“Come on,” he said tersely, yanking Stiles around and pulling him in the direction away from where had had thrown the werewolf. Stiles reached down and snagged the handle of his bag, tripping over his feet as he tried to keep up with Derek's punishing pace. “Move!” Derek growled, his grip tightening around Stiles' red-hoodie clad bicep, trying to keep the boy from falling down.

“I can't... not all... of us... have werewolf speed you know,” Stiles panted between gasping breaths, his feet somehow managing to find every single root and hole to get caught in.

“We need to get out of here, now.” Derek muttered, then froze as he heard a growl reverberating through the woods, bouncing off the trees. He grimaced; he hadn't broken as many bones as he would have liked. He turned Stiles to face him, who was heaving great mouthfuls of air like he was about to go diving, and put one hand on his waist and the other on his thigh, heaving him up over his shoulder.

“Hey, what...? Oh my God, put me down... Hey, hey! Bad touching!” Stiles yelped out as he was manhandled into a fireman's carry, and Derek rolled his eyes and moved his hand round so that he was steadying Stiles at the hip instead.

“You're too slow on your own feet, this will be quicker,” he replied, and took off in the direction of the road.

“Oh fine, great. Yep, this isn't emasculating in any way,” Stiles moaned from his position across Derek's shoulders, his arms loosely circling Derek's waist in defeat. “I might as well just buy a petticoat and a bonnet and be done with it.” He sighed dramatically, and Derek rolled his eyes again even as he ran at top speed away from the Alpha following close on their heels.

The smell of old plastic and diesel fuel reached his nose, and Derek turned, seeing a glimpse of pale blue through the swaying branches. He flew through them and stopped, bending down and depositing Stiles next to his Jeep. Stiles wobbled and fell back against the door.

“Hurry up and get in the car, she's right behind us,” Derek grabbed Stiles' backpack and vaulted over the hood of the car, waiting for Stiles to unlock the doors. 

Stiles fumbled in his pockets and extricated the key, opening the door and climbing in and leaning over to unlock the passenger door. “You know, I don't think that kind of carry is really meant for long distance journeys, it kind of makes you go numb from the waist down.” He keyed the ignition and pumped his foot on the gas pedal, the Jeep pulling away from the side of the road just as the female Alpha darted out from behind the trees. “Jesus...” Stiles jumped a little and his foot floored the gas, making the Jeep shudder and screech down the road. Derek watched in the side mirror as the werewolf tried to follow, before slowing down and watching the car disappear around the corner.

“Well. That was a thing that happened.” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows at Derek before turning his eyes back to the road.

“What the hell were you doing out there.” Derek clenched his hands into fists to stop him from smacking Stiles' head against the steering wheel again. He needed to wait until they had stopped moving for that.

Stiles sighed. “We're really going to have to work on how to phrase a question. I was looking for a plant, if you must know.”

Derek thought his head might actually explode. “You were looking for a plant,” he echoed flatly, turning in his seat to glare at the boy.

Stiles flicked his gaze over to Derek and rolled his eyes. “You know,” he said conversationally, “the more often you do something, the less effective it becomes. Yes, I was looking for a plant. There was one in that book you gave me that I thought might be useful, and Deaton gave me an idea of where to look for it.”

“In the middle of the night.” 

“Again with the questions phrased as statements. Yes, in the middle of the night, I had to wait until my Dad left for work. And actually,” Stiles smirked slightly, “you should be glad I was there, you wouldn't have been able to outrun that Alpha without my trusty Jeep to speed us away in the nick of time.” He leaned forward and patted the dashboard lovingly.

“I wasn't planning on outrunning her,” Derek spat through clenched teeth, somehow managing not to reach over and strangle Stiles with his hoodie.

“Wait, what? You were running away from her!”

“No. I was leading her.” Derek's hands twitched and he curled them into tighter fists on his thighs.

“Leading her where? To a nice big clearing where the rest of her pack could rip you to pieces?” Stiles said incredulously, his eyes wide.

“She was alone. We had a plan.” Derek said pointedly, and Stiles gaped at him for a minute, his eyes widening as things fell into place.

“Oh my God,” he mumbled, teeth worrying his lower lip as he realised what had happened, and for some reason Derek found his anger slipping slowly away. “Sorry,” Stiles muttered quietly, as he pulled the Jeep onto his driveway and killed the engine.

Derek didn't say it was okay; he didn't say anything. But he did hand Stiles his backpack as they stepped out of the car and slammed the doors shut. They stood on opposite sides of the car for a minute, before Derek turned to go and find the group still at the school. He wasn't particularly looking forward to telling the hunters he had failed, although he would probably enjoy reaming Scott out for not telling Stiles what was going on.

“Next time you decide to go pick flowers in the woods, try doing it in daylight.”

Stiles expression turned immediately from guilty to amused irritation at the order. He pointed his keys at Derek. “I swear by my pretty floral bonnet I will end you.” At Derek's blank look, he rolled his eyes. “God, it's like you don't even know what television even is,” he huffed out, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “How about, next time you manage to think up a plan that doesn't actually suck, you tell me about it first so I don't get in the way.” He looked pointedly at Derek.

Derek looked at him for a moment. “I thought Scott would have done it,” he said finally.

Stiles sighed and rubbed a hand over his short hair. “Just because Scott doesn't want to join your pack, it doesn't mean you can't talk to me,” he said, looking at the ground instead of at Derek. “Try it sometime. Maybe I can show you what a television is for.” He waved once and walked to his door, looking back once more as he walked inside.

Derek stood on the driveway for a moment longer, wondering just what Stiles meant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry for the slow update, things have been a bit hectic recently, not least of which was me crashing my car. Which was, you know, not that much fun at all, really. Nobody was hurt though, just a bunch of phonecalls and emails and apologising to lots of people that had to be done. Anyway, new chapter, finally! Yay?

“You'd really think,” Stiles gasped out between wheezing breaths, “that with all the practice I've had of running for my life recently, I'd be better at it by now.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek yanked on Stiles' wrist and pulled him round the corner and down the next flight of stairs, and Stiles was almost certain that they'd already run down this particular hall at least once tonight.

“Hey, my running commentary is so one of the top five things that keep you coming to me for help, and you know it.” 

The truth is, Stiles would love to be able to do what Derek wants and just keep his mouth shut for a while. His lungs were burning and his legs felt like someone had encased them in concrete, and he was starting to get dizzy from the lack of oxygen making its way up to his brain (although that could also be attributed to the fact that they were almost certainly running in circles). But he can't stop talking. For one, this is what Stiles does; if a scary situation turns up, chatter at it until it goes away. But more importantly, right now, letting words tumble straight from his brain and out over his tongue is currently stopping Stiles from remembering the last time he had run through the darkened halls of the school. And if he started remembering that night all over again, well let's just say he'd be even less able to do what needed to be done tonight.

They ran through the hallway lined with school trophies, and Stiles' feet slowed, his hand reaching out to snag Derek's leather jacket. “This is...” he gasped out, “we've been past this... at least twice already...”

A noise sounded behind them; a door at the end of the hallway creaked open, and Derek grabbed Stiles around the waist, one hand coming up to clamp hotly over Stiles' mouth as he spun them both around and into -

“A supply closet? Really Derek?” Stiles reached up and yanked Derek's hand from his mouth to whisper furiously at him. “If you wanted seven minutes in heaven with me, all you had to do was ask...” Stiles trailed off, hoping that even with his freaky werewolf senses it was still too dark for Derek to see his cheeks blush.

“What.”

Stiles rolled his eyes; he didn't have to be able to see to know the expression on Derek's face right now (one part incredulous, ten parts constipated). “I know you went to high school for at least a year are you seriously saying you've never heard the... you know what? Never mind. What the hell are we doing in a _supply closet_ , Derek?” His mouth was open to continue his furiously whispered diatribe, but he only managed a small squeak as Derek's palm slid across his lips again, his other hand coming to rest on the back of his head to stop him backing away.

Derek leaned closer to him and breathed into his ear. Stiles felt his eyes roll up into his head and all the blood in his body rush down below his waist before he realised that Derek wasn't just trying to turn him on but was actually whispering words to him.

“Think about it, Stiles.”

_I am!_

Wait no, he wasn't, because that wasn't what Derek was referring to at all.

So Stiles willed all thoughts away from the fact that Derek had him held close against his (very muscular, but we aren't thinking about that right now) chest in an oddly intimate embrace and the extreme proximity of Derek's lips to the sensitive skin just below his ear, and tried to run his mind back over what they were even doing here in the first place.

***

Lacrosse practice had been a painful procedure that afternoon. Coach Finstock had decided that Danny was just too damn pretty to risk having his face smashed in (at least until game night) and had put Stiles in goal as replacement. Stiles had then spent the following two hours failing to either avoid or catch the balls being lobbed at him with unsurprising force. Even though it was obvious to Stiles that his werewolf team mates were trying to pull their throws, they were still the ones that managed to hurt the most when they made contact.

By the time practice was over, Stiles' body had been one giant walking bruise. By the time he'd got home, he had been looking forward to doing nothing for the rest of the evening except taking a long hot shower and then falling into an oblivious sleep.

So of course, as he pushed open his bedroom door and let his bag slip from his shoulder to the floor, he had let out an undignified yelp as his eyes fell on Derek sitting in his computer chair.

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles flailed his hands and banged off the door jamb, waiting for his heart to slide back down his throat. He didn't know why he was surprised; uninvited werewolves sitting in his bedroom waiting for him was just a part of his life these days (or at least, one particular grumpy werewolf). Derek just looked at him, like he too was wondering why he was surprised, and Stiles sighed and crossed to his bed, sliding down into a slump across the pillows. “What do you want?” He asked, his voice muffled by his arm slung over his face.

“Those things,” Derek said, his brow pulling down into a frown as though he was annoyed that he had to explain himself at all. “Those bottles that you and Jackson threw at Peter...”

He trailed off and Stiles lifted his head slightly. “You mean the Molotov Cocktails? What about them?” He asked at Derek's curt nod.

“I want to know how to make them,” Derek muttered, looking down at his boots. Stiles laughed a little incredulously. “What.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the question-phrased-as-a-statement and shrugged slightly. “Nothing, it's just, I was thinking something similar earlier today.” Stiles dragged himself up into a sitting position and leaned down to pull his sneakers off. “I was thinking, we could make up a few of them, keep them in handily concealed places.” He looked up to see Derek watching his movements, a calculating look on his face. “We could put some wolfsbane in the mixture too, make it even harder for them to heal quickly once it's hit.”

Derek was silent for a moment. “That's... actually a pretty good idea.”

Stiles felt a bubble of irritation rise up in him at the insinuation that his ideas weren't usually good – they were _fantastic_. Well, except for that one time he decided going to find half a dead body in the woods was a good idea, but _one time_ does _not_ negate all the other awesome ideas he has had – but he was too tired and sore to really feel the anger.

“Well, it's no _hey, let's cut off my arm_ , but I thought so too.” He could still be sarcastic though. He was never too tired for sarcasm.

“We'll go tonight.” Derek stood up and moved to the window.

“You know, when my Dad's not here the door is actually – wait, what do you mean, tonight? And what do you mean, _we_?” Stiles stood up, reaching out to grab Derek's arm before he could vault out the window and disappear like the ominous creeper he is.

“I need you to come with me to the school, so you can tell me what we need.” Derek raised his eyebrows at the hand on his arm, and Stiles withdrew his fingers quickly.

“But why me?” Derek just looked at him, and Stiles sighed. “Because I'm the only one who knows what to look for except Lydia, and she doesn't like you.” Not that Stiles likes Derek that much either, because he absolutely _doesn't_.

“I'll be back in three hours.” Derek turned and slipped out the window.

Stiles watched his dark clad form disappear into the trees lining the road and leaned against the windowsill. He eyed his bed with a deep longing, then stood up straight with a groan. A good night's sleep might be off the night's menu, but he could at least still get that long hot shower.

***

Stiles was just zipping up his hoodie when he felt a presence behind him, and he turned towards the window and scowled at Derek.

“Dude, seriously, you know my Dad's not here, and I am definitely not going to be climbing back out the window with you. My front door is perfectly usable, you know.” Derek just glared at him, and Stiles sighed and picked up his almost empty bag. “Fine, whatever, feel free to use my window for all your creeper needs. Come on, let's get this over with.”

Stiles walked out of his room and down the stairs, completely unsurprised to find that Derek hadn't followed him and was waiting for him by his Camaro. “You're driving?”

“My car's more comfortable.”

Stiles bristled over the insult to his baby. “My Jeep is perfectly comfortable thank you very much.” He wasn't too bothered though; he figured his car had less chance of being mauled by something supernatural if it stayed safely on his driveway. “Just try to remember that there's an extremely breakable human in the car while you're taking corners like a rally driver, okay?”

Derek snorted quietly and started the car, and Stiles held onto the door handle with white knuckles as the Camaro screeched away from the curb. He was so doing that on purpose.

“You know,” Stiles said conversationally, willing his voice to stop wavering as he watched the darkened trees flash by his window, “I could have just stolen this stuff from school tomorrow, we didn't need to go on a field trip in the middle of the night.”

“It's not the middle of the night, it's barely past nine.”

“Yes, thank you for assuming I don't know how to tell the time. It's still dark out, and it's still way past time for any reasonable person to be hanging around at school, so I stand by my phrasing.” Stiles crossed his arms irritably, trying to ignore the way Derek's lips quirked up at the corners, like he had been tempted to smile for a second before realising that he doesn't know how.

Derek pulled up just outside the rusted chain link fence and Stiles looked out at the darkened school on the other side of the closed and locked gate. “Shit. My fence-cutting stuff's in my Jeep. I knew I should have driven.”

“We'll climb over.” Derek got out of the car and clicked his door shut. Stiles followed him, walking up to the fence that looked incredibly high and not at all safe.

“You do realise I don't actually have werewolf abilities, right? I can't just vault over that. At least not without breaking at least one limb.”

Derek walked over to the padlock and gave it an experimental tug. “I could break it open, but I would prefer not to announce my presence here.”

Stiles sighed. “No, it's fine, I'll just climb it. Get your hairy ass over to the other side and just try to catch me if I fall, okay?” He poked the toe of his sneaker through the links, pulling himself up slowly and precariously, gritting his teeth in annoyance as the fence wobbled slightly before Derek's face appeared in front of him on the other side.

It was slow going, but eventually he made it over the top, narrowly avoiding damaging something he was still stubbornly hoping he would be able to use in the future. He impressed himself by only wobbling slightly when his feet finally touched ground again, and the impatient sigh from Derek only made his proud dance even more obnoxious.

“Stop prancing about and get moving.” Derek grabbed his elbow and steered him in the direction of the school.

“Hey, I'm about to break many laws by breaking into school and stealing stuff with a very sour wolf in tow, I'll take my kicks where I can find them, thank you very much.” Stiles yanked his arm out of Derek's grip and moved towards the school gym. “There's a window over here with the lock broken. We can get in that way.”

Stiles located the window and Derek dragged a dumpster underneath it for Stiles to climb on, and then they were in the school proper, with only the outside security lights filtering through the grubby windows to see by.

“My locker first, then the chemistry department,” Stiles said, moving off towards the hallway and turning left.

“Why?” Derek followed him anyway, and Stiles wished he could see better in the dark, because he kept bouncing off the walls as he tried to find his way through the darkened hallways.

“I told you, I had this idea about the cocktails earlier,” Stiles pushed his way through a set of double doors, wincing as his hip banged into the doorknob. “So I borrowed a few of the big test tubes from chem and put them in my locker.” His fingers encountered a bank of lockers, and he started counting as he slid along them. “A ha! Found it!” He twisted the lock and pulled open the door, trying not to think about how strangely intimate it felt to have Derek see the inside of his locker. He found the box of test tubes he had misappropriated earlier in the day and slipped it into his backpack, slamming the locker door shut and spinning the dial. “Okay, now for some chemistry.” He turned to go back the way they had come and bounced off Derek's shoulder in the dark.

The science department was set in the back of the school, with only a few small high windows that faced the woods at the back of the property, so Stiles felt it was safe to turn on the lights. He busied himself finding all the ingredients he would need for the cocktails and lining them all up on the workbench.

“Okay so,” Stiles flicked his fingers in a get-over-here gesture, and was momentarily surprised that Derek complied. He pulled out a test tube and held it up for Derek to see. It was wider at the base than it was at the top, with a wooden cork shoved into the top. “We have sulphuric acid, alcohol and potassium chlorate.” He wiggled the jar of white powder under Derek's nose, flinching slightly when the Alpha growled at him. He put the jar back down and reached for his bag, pulling out another jar, this time full of purple powder. “And here we have the wolfsbane. So,” he uncorked one of the test tubes and handed it to Derek, who looked down at it like the glass vial had just personally offended him. 

“I don't need a chemistry lesson, Stiles.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at him. “I'm sorry, did you forget the part where you were waiting in my room like the big creeper you are so that you could ask me how to make these things?” Stiles grabbed the tube back and started pouring the liquids into it, hoping he was getting the measurements right. “I agreed to help, I didn't agree to become your personal Molotov cocktail-making slave. You could at least pretend to be listening to what I'm trying to teach you.” He shook a bit of each powder into the mixture and slammed the stopper back in, shaking the bottle thoroughly before putting it back on the counter. “Okay, your turn. Let's see if you were paying attention.”

Derek looked at the test tube Stiles was dangling in front of his face and sighed, the noise coming out as more of a snarl. Stiles waggled his eyebrows in a helpful gesture and leaned back against the bench to watch Derek work. It turned out Derek had been watching, and Stiles was mildly impressed that the werewolf could actually accomplish tasks that weren't of the stalking variety. They worked quietly together for a while, filling each of the test tubes until they had twelve molotov cocktails lined up on the counter in front of them.

Stiles placed the last of the glass vials down on the counter (Derek had actually turned out to be faster than Stiles, which he was definitely not pouting over) and punched his hands up in the air in victory. “And on the eighth day, Stiles made wolfsbane bombs, and he saw that they were good!” He proclaimed in a loud voice that echoed around the empty classroom. “Now, all we need to do... shit.” The proud smile slid off his face as he looked at the line of very breakable glass in front of him. “How the hell are we going to move them all? I can't put them back in my bag, they might crash together, and I do _not_ want to be holding it when that happens.” Then he pointed his finger at Derek. “Ooh, idea, we could...” He trailed off as Derek's head whipped around to look at the door, and Stiles felt resigned fear settle low in his stomach.

“We need to go. Now.” Derek reached out and wrapped his fingers around Stiles' wrist and started pulling him towards the exit on the other side of the room.

“Derek, wait,” Stiles yanked his arm out of his grip and started carefully collecting the now full tubes. He opened one of the cabinets and placed them right at the back, wedging broken bunsen burners and empty box files in front of them. He kept two back, handing one to Derek as he straightened again. “I'm guessing we might need these?”

In answer, Derek grabbed the back of Stiles shirt and pulled him from the room.

***

There had been three members of the Alpha pack prowling through the corridors of the school, and they had encountered the first as they tried to make their way quietly back through the window in the gym. Stiles had thrown his cocktail and missed, but Derek's had landed unerringly on his target, which had not made Stiles feel useless and inferior in any way – although he had felt a bit proud as the Alpha started screaming from the wolfsbane. His momentary triumph had been squashed rather quickly however, when the howls of pain brought the other two Alphas directly to their location. Derek had grabbed Stiles' wrist again and pulled him through the corridors, Stiles barely managing to stay upright with the speed.

Which was how Stiles now found himself standing in a darkened supply closet, squashed up against Derek's (totally average and not at all arousing) chest with his hand pressed over his mouth. Stiles reached up and firmly peeled Derek's fingers away, trying to convey with his eyes that he wasn't about to give away their position.

“You led us round in circles on purpose,” Stiles whispered, finally understanding what Derek had been trying to do. If they were lucky, the Alphas would be working mainly with their sense of smell and not their hearing and would go straight past them. Stiles opened his mouth to ask how long they would be stuck there, but Derek pressed a finger against his lips to stop him.

“They've gone past,” he breathed out after a moment, and seconds later a crack of light appeared as Derek slowly opened the door. He leaned back towards Stiles. “We're going to run back to the gym, get out the window and across the field to the car. Whatever happens, just keep running. Understand?” 

He glared at Stiles, his favourite way to say he was being serious, and Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, oh Almighty Alpha, I do understand basic English.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at that, and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “Well? Are we going to do this, or what?”

Derek sighed and pushed the door open a little wider, his head cocked as he listened to the sounds of the other werewolves deeper in the school. He reached out and grabbed Stiles' wrist again, pulling him out into the moonlit hallway and pulling him quickly round the corner into the gym.

Stiles tried not to choke over the smell of half burnt werewolf coming from the other side of the room. He tried to turn and check to see if the werewolf was dead, but Derek grabbed him round the waist and threw him up to the still open window before he could get a proper look. Stiles grabbed the ledge and pulled himself through the window, landing in a tangle of limbs on top of the dumpster. Derek landed gracefully beside him, and he didn't even have time to complain about his own lack of coordination before Derek was pushing him onto the ground and in the general direction of the fence.

Stiles managed to get his feet under him and he ran full out to the fence, not worrying this time if he could climb it. He was just wondering if Coach Finstock should threaten the lacrosse team with Alpha werewolves to motivate them when a growl sounded behind him, very very close.

Poised at the top of the fence, Stiles froze, turning towards the sound. The Alpha they had burnt in the gym was running full tilt at the fence behind him, his face and chest still smoking as it healed.

“Stiles! Jump!” 

Derek vaulted the fence like it was a bump in the road and the fence wobbled. Stiles whimpered as he swung his other leg over the fence. He let go just as the Alpha hit the fence, jolting his fall a few feet further away. Stiles just his eyes and tried to brace for impact, but instead of his ass hitting the ground, two solid hands caught him and his breath whooshed out of his lungs as he landed against Derek's chest.

Derek didn't even bother to put him down; he ran to his car and threw Stiles inside, skidding over the bonnet and into the drivers seat before the Alpha had made it over the fence. The Camaro roared underneath him as he sped away, Stiles watching the Alpha disappear in his side mirror.

Stiles blew out a breath. “Dude, if you keep touching my ass, I might start to get the wrong idea.” Derek raised an eyebrow at him in the semi darkness. “But you know, thanks. For the saving thing, I guess.” He reached out and patted Derek on the arm, laughing under his breath at the werewolf's glare. “Next one's on me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the plot bunnies suddenly attacked, and I wrote this in about an hour, so there may be a few spelling/punctuation mistakes, and possibly even some continuity errors (oh god, the horror!). So if you find any, let me know, and I'll fix 'em!

Stiles was freezing. He was wrapped up in a big winter jacket, neck swamped in an over-sized knitted scarf and two pairs of mittens pulled up over his hands to his elbows, and still he couldn't stop the bone-tremoring shivers that wracked his body. His breath came out in puffs of white air in front of him, even through the scarf pulled up over his nose and mouth, and he wrapped his arms around his chest, stamping his feet slightly to try and bring some warmth into his denim clad legs. 

He leaned back against the tree behind him, feeling the cold of the bark even through all of his layers. His head tilted back slightly as he tried to see the sky though the canopy of leaves above him, his woollen hat slipping down over his eyebrows. He didn't want to be here, he wanted to be anywhere but here. Preferably somewhere with heating. Or at the very least, some light. But the trees were too thick and the waning moon was too dull for him to even see more than a few feet in front of him.

He sighed and thought longingly of his algebra text book lying open on his desk at home, the fuzzy blue blanket on the end of his bed and the delicious hot chocolate hidden at the back of the fridge behind all the vegetables where his dad was sure to never look. Stiles banged his head against the tree twice. When studying for a math quiz gave you warm and fuzzy feelings, it was a pretty clear indication of a fucked up situation.

Which this was.

Because apparently the Alpha pack had decided that he was a part of Derek's little band of misfit serial-killer wannabes and decided that as he was the weakest link they would get to him first. Stiles would love to have the opportunity to sit down with these guys and point out that he had absolutely nothing to do with Derek's pack because he had his own, thanks very much, but he couldn't. Because A) the Alphas would just rip his throat out before he even got the chance to say more than “eurk!” and B) as far as anyone knew, they didn't actually know that there was more than one pack of wolves in Beacon Hills at this point, and Stiles would very much like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Not that he didn't think Scott could handle a situation if it arose, because ever since the whole Gerard Argent thing Stiles had been seriously wondering if he had underestimated his best friend's abilities in thinking for himself, but still. He wouldn't be a very good best friend if he just blurted out Scott's existence to a bunch of homicidal nutjobs.

So here he was, in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night in the middle of the week, stomping his feet while trying not to freeze to death, waiting for something to show up so that Derek, Boyd and Erica could at least attempt to thin the pack down by a few Alphas, and hopefully get Stiles back off their radar.

Yep, this was Stiles' life now; he acted as bait.

To be fair on the werewolves, it had even been his own idea, one that he'd actually had to argue with Derek over, standing in the middle of the abandoned subway and gesturing with his entire body, while Derek crossed his arms and looked murderous (but then, that was a usual look for him, he probably had that look on his face while he slept) and Boyd and Erica watched with varying degrees of amusement spread across their faces. Stiles had eventually won the argument with blackmail: “Either I do this plan with you, or I go to your un-dead Uncle Peter.” “And what makes you think he'd be any more willing to go along with this?” “Well, we worked well together once before.” Derek had glared at him, but Stiles had just raised his eyebrows and looked calmly back, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything to ruin the stand off. Finally Derek had sighed and said, “fine. But we're doing this _my_ way,” to which Stiles had rolled his eyes and murmured, “never would have expected anything different.”

The thing was, Stiles knew his idea was stupid and careless, but he also knew it was the best chance they had at thinning the herd a little, making it easier to kill off the rest of the Alpha pack. And he knew it had to be him, that he had to play the role of bait, because he was the easiest target. Any Alpha with a brain could suss out that a member of the pack wandering seemingly alone through the woods in the dead of night was a trap, but with Stiles as the bait, their confidence would probably override their flight response. He was just a human after all; they could easily kill him without getting caught in whatever trap he had laid for them. Then all they had to do was wait while the rest of the pack were driven into a disorganised frenzy over the death of their token human, leaving them open to being picked off one by one.

Stiles knew this, because they'd already tried the day before. He'd stayed late after lacrosse practise, a chemistry test looming over him for the following day, and he'd figured that studying in the uncomfortable chairs in the library might give him more focus than in the comfort of his own bedroom, where the allure of the internet and his X-box or his bed wouldn't be able to interrupt his focus. But he had been bone-weary (and bruised) from practise, and not even the scratchy chairs and the slightly sticky tables in the library had managed to prevent him from falling asleep, hunched and drooling over his textbook. 

An incoming text message from Scott – _Allison just replied to my text! :))_ \- had startled him awake, and Stiles had grabbed his bag and rushed out to the parking lot, his Jeep the only car to be seen. Throwing his things into the passenger seat, he had started the engine and started driving home, panicking slightly at what his dad would think of his lateness. He was actually glad to not have to lie this time about why he was coming home so late, but with everything that had been happening recently, even legitimate reasons to worry his dad made his stomach curdle.

His panicked thoughts had been why he hadn't noticed the looming figure in the middle of the road until it was too late, and Stiles had sworn loudly as he yanked at the steering wheel, his feet braced on the break. With a squeal of tyres and a groaning of metal, the Jeep had flipped, coming to rest upside down against a tree lining the side of the road. His seat belt had kept him from being thrown from the car (“if I ever hear of you driving without a belt on Stiles, I swear to God you will be grounded for the rest of your life!”), but now it kept him suspended upside down in his car, pulled taut and cutting into his shoulder.

Amazingly enough, he hadn't been panicked at all after it happened; just listened to the metal groaning and settling around him while he'd concentrated on blowing air through his lips and gently testing all of his limbs to be sure they were still in working order. That was, until he'd heard the sound of boots crunching on glass – and huh, his windshield was gone – and a dark mass had come to a crouch by the driver's window.

At first, Stiles had just looked out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to move his head properly (hello, neck injuries are bad news, okay?), but when a clawed finger traced down the side of his jaw he'd flinched and turned to look at the intruder. It was the guy Derek had hit with the wolfsbane bomb the other night; even from upside down Stiles could see the straggly black hair that was shorter one one side where it had gone up in flames. His headlights reflected off the trees, highlighting a small patch of skin on the guy's cheekbone that was still scarred with burns, and Stiles felt a small bubble of pride at the thought of his idea working well enough so that the wolf still wasn't fully healed two days later.

And then the guy growled and suddenly Stiles wasn't quite so proud; he was definitely going to want to get even. “Derek threw it, not me!” He'd shouted – well okay, more like squeaked, but he can't really be blamed for that. 

The guy smirked, revealing slightly yellow teeth and an uneven upper lip. “And he'll pay for that.”

Stiles had let out a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the dirty claw making its way slowly down his neck. “Well, he's not here right now. Maybe – maybe you should go look for him? I'll just, you know, sort this out...” He trailed off as the claw found his shoulder, giving the seat belt an experimental tug. Stiles threw his arm up to brace himself against the roof of the car; falling onto his head and getting a concussion was really not going to help his situation right now.

“He burned my hair. I _like_ my hair.” The Alpha's claw made its way down to the strap across Stiles' stomach, drawing a line against the bare skin where his shirt had fallen upwards. “So I'm thinking I might take something of his that _he_ likes, just to balance the score.”

Stiles swallowed. “Well, he is rather attached to his leather jacket? Maybe you could start there?”

The guy chuckled darkly. “I was thinking more along the lines of... _you_.” The claw sliced through the belt, causing Stiles' knees to fall painfully against the steering column. “You're... _his_.”

Stiles frowned at that, his other arm coming up to the roof to hold himself in place, the rest of the belt slithering away from his body. They actually thought he was a part of Derek's pack? He thought about correcting the Alpha, but the guy kept talking, telling him how much fun it would be to pull out his intestines and just wait for Derek to feel it and come looking, and seriously, what was it with evil guys and their need for exposition?

He was just contemplating rolling over into the passenger seat and attempting to make a break for it through the passenger door (because seriously, all this hanging upside down was doing absolutely _nothing_ for his complexion) when he heard a muffled thud. The werewolf grunted and fell against the car, sliding out of his crouch and onto his knees. Then he'd looked up at Stiles, his eyes glowing red. “This isn't over,” he'd whispered, and then he was gone, using his supernatural speed to hurtle over the car and disappear into the trees, and Stiles was left in his precarious position in his slightly rocking Jeep, looking up into Chris Argent's face, the barrel of his gun still smoking.

Argent had helped him out of the wreck and Stiles had leant against it, his knees shaking as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He couldn't hide what had happened from his dad, as much as he would like to keep the worry of a car crash from him, so he just dialled the number, hoping to get it over with as soon as possible. The phone on the other end only managed to ring twice before a dark shape hurtled out of the woods, and Stiles had cursed and dropped his phone as Argent swung his gun around.

Derek came to a stop just in front of the gun, his hands raised ever so slightly, enough to say he wasn't a threat; not even close to saying he surrendered.

“Stiles. What happened.” Derek's gaze took in the mangled Jeep before sweeping over Stiles, his nostrils flaring slightly.

“Again with the non-questions,” he'd muttered, bending down to retrieve his phone and looking with dismay at the cracked screen. Great, the phone had survived a car crash and an angry Alpha, only to be broken by the mere arrival of Derek Hale. “It was...” he flicked his gaze to Argent and back to Derek, not sure how much the hunter knew about their school invasion, “the guy you played catch with the other night,” he said, giving Derek a meaningful glance.

Argent was too quick though; he kept his gun up and pinned Derek with a sharp look. “You haven't fixed the problem yet?”

“I'm dealing with it,” Derek said, staring back at Argent while edging around him, closer to Stiles.

Argent stared at him for a long moment, before nodding and holstering his gun finally. “Be sure that you do,” he said ominously, and with a nod in Stiles' direction he headed back up the road the way he had come, a pair of headlights flicking on in the distance.

Derek leaned closer to Stiles and sniffed, his hands coming up to Stiles' shoulders, fingers digging in as he felt his neck. “Are you hurt?”

Stiles shrugged Derek's hands off. “Only in my _soul_.” He stared mournfully at his Jeep, reaching out a hand to pat the undercarriage forlornly. “My poor baby...”

Derek rolled his eyes and stepped back. “Did the Alpha...”

“No,” Stiles interrupted, leaning down to crawl through the window and grab his bag. “Argent shot him before he could do anything. He said he'd be back though,” he crab-walked back out and tried to see if he could still dial out on his phone. “Like a James Bond villain. Apparently he's really pissed that you ruined his pretty hair style, seemed to think you'd give a damn if he disemboweled me.” He looked up just in time to see a frown on Derek's face. He could relate. “It's good though. If they're all assuming I'm a part of your pack then that might mean they don't know about Scott. One less victim they could target, right?” He sighed and shoved his phone into his bag. “You broke my phone. Can I use yours? I need to call my dad and see about a tow truck.”

Derek stared at him for a long moment, before putting his hand in his jacket and pulling out his cell. “If they're after you-”

“Yeah, we need to come up with a plan.” Stiles took the phone and keyed in his dad's number. “I'll come find you later, I need to get this sorted first.”

Derek rolled his eyes again. “Stiles, I'm not leaving you on the side of the road with a totaled car.”

“She's not totaled!” Stiles was scandalised. “It's just a bump, she'll be fine! Won't you baby?” He crooned at the car and then sighed. “Fine. Just make sure you creep back into the shadows before my dad sees you.”

Less than five minutes later and the sheriff had come careening down the road, both lights and sirens blaring. Stiles had rolled his eyes the overreaction as Derek had melted back into the trees behind them, waving his hands to signify he was fine before his dad had managed to get out of the cruiser.

“I'm fine, Dad, I'm fi-mmph!” His words were swallowed as the sheriff pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” The sheriff looked over at the car, still lying on its roof, the windshield completely blown out.

“There was something in the road,” Stiles answered as truthfully as he could. “I swerved, but I must have caught the wheel in a pothole or something, because she just flipped. She can be repaired though, right?” He gazed at the car in distress. It looked so much worse now that it was highlighted by his dad's flashing lights.

“We'll see.” His dad pulled him over to the passenger side of the cruiser as the tow truck turned up. The sheriff handed over the insurance details and then got in the car, leaving the guy to his work and driving Stiles home.

And now, a day later Stiles was here, in the woods late at night, his shoulder and hips still aching from the seat belt, standing in a wide ring of mountain ash, waiting for the guy who was really far too attached to his – really, pretty crappy – hairstyle to come and take the bait.

Stiles pulled himself upright and moved away from the tree, closer to the edge of the magic circle. They had decided on a spot close to the small lake, hoping the fresh water smells would help confuse the scent of the other werewolves lurking close by. They hadn't included Isaac in their plan; he was too close to Scott these days and Stiles couldn't be certain that the young beta wouldn't go and tell him all about it. Stiles did not want Scott to know about his -admittedly rather stupid and desperate – idea; things between the two packs were already strained enough as it was, he didn't think Scott would take too kindly to Derek agreeing to use Stiles as bait.

Stiles' gaze snagged on the steel colour of the water, the edges rippling slightly in the stiff breeze. In the silence that only this time of night could bring, it was actually quite peaceful. Or at least it would be, if he wasn't on edge waiting for an extremely pissed off Alpha to try to jump him and rip out his insides.

A snap of a twig behind him made him whirl around, and a figure appeared by the tree he had only minutes ago been leaning against. The man rose out of his crouch, the lopsided shadow of his hair showing him to be the werewolf they'd been waiting for. He smiled, dirty yellow teeth gleaming in the thin moonlight.

“Decided to make it easy for me, did you?” He stepped around the tree, his gaze intent on Stiles, his nose sampling the air. Stiles shrugged, even as he inwardly prayed that the wind wouldn't change direction at the wrong moment. The others were all safely downwind at the moment, meaning that they could smell this guy easily, without him knowing they were there until it was too late. Hopefully.

“I just didn't want to take the risk of you breaking any more of my things. That Jeep was my precioussss.” Stiles dragged out the sibilant in an imitation of Gollum.

The Alpha smirked, his toes walking the line of the circle, and Stiles resisted the urge to look down, to bring attention to the mountain ash. “Oh, I'm sure your pack are close by, just waiting to make their move,” he said lightly, confident in his abilities to win whatever fight was sure to be coming. “The only question is, can they get here before I rip out your throat?” He lifted his hands, and Stiles could see the moonlight glinting off the pointed claws.

Stiles straightened his back. “Actually, I'm thinking that they can,” and he lifted his chin, the 'go' signal.

And then the plan went to shit.

The wolfsbane soaked net fell down over the werewolf, Erica slithering down the trunk from where she had been camped for most of the night. But she had got the angle wrong, and instead of the net completely covering their enemy, it hit him over one arm, and he shrugged out of it with a howl, even as the ropes burned through his skin. He swiped at Erica and she fell down in a slump, blood pouring out under her jacket and over her knees.

Stiles was supposed to stay in the protective circle. This had been Derek's stipulation to the plan; under no circumstances was he to step over the line. Werewolves could heal, Stiles could not.

But as the Alpha leaned down over Erica's slumped body, Stiles knew he didn't have a choice. Derek and Boyd were too far away to get here in time; Stiles had only had enough of the powdered herbs that mask a person's scent for one person.

So Stiles didn't think, he just leapt over the edge of the circle and slammed into the werewolf's back, pushing him away from Erica's prone form. He fell to his knees with the force of his impact as the Alpha twisted out of his grasp and grabbed him around the neck. His back pressed against the guy's chest, Stiles felt himself being hauled backwards towards the edge of the lake, his heels scrabbling for purchase on the frosty ground. If he could just wriggle away, he could get back inside the circle just in time for Derek to come to the rescue. He could hear the pounding of feet; they weren't far away.

“Coming to watch your boy die, Hale?” The Alpha called out, and Derek leapt from behind a tree with a growl. The werewolf tightened his grip on Stiles' neck, the points of his claws poking through the knitted scarf and scraping his skin. Their backward movement stopped, and Stiles closed his eyes, trying to slow his rapid breathing. 

A small noise to his left made him open them again, and he saw Boyd, slinking along the edge of the trees slowly. If he could just get out of the Alpha's grip, then Boyd and Derek could attack him at the same time. He stopped trying to pull at the arm circling his chest and started pulling carefully at his sleeve, trying to get one of his mittens off.

“Let him go,” Derek rumbled, his eyes flashing red, claws extended.

The Alpha laughed. “I don't think so,” he said, his voice dangerously polite. “You know, you shouldn't really be surprised that this is happening,” he continued conversationally. Stiles continued to pull at his mitten, working his fingers out of the fabric. “I mean, everyone you love dies painfully. Shouldn't you have seen this coming?”

Rage built up in Stiles' chest at the words so callously thrown at Derek and he saw the pain flash across the werewolf's face. He pulled the dagger out of his sleeve in a violent motion, wrenching his shoulder as he twisted in the Alpha's grip, digging the blade into his side. The werewolf grunted, and then howled as the wolfsbane on the steel made its presence known, and then suddenly Stiles was airborne.

He heard a roar and a growl and the sound of flesh being rent before his head hit the surface of the lake and he crashed under. The shock of the freezing cold water whited out his brain for a moment, his insides seizing and his limbs burning from the cold. Reality hit him after a few seconds, and he realised he was sinking, his heavy clothes dragging him under. He flailed his arms and pulled himself up, gasping for air as his face breached the surface. Sounds of splashing sounded behind him before warm fingers curled around his neck and an arm wrapped around his chest, pulling him back to the shore.

“Boyd, get Erica back to the subway. She'll heal, but it's gonna take a while.” Stiles realised that it was Derek who was holding him in a death grip, and he stopped struggling against the arms holding him up. He landed on all fours on the muddy floor surrounding the edge of the lake and he started coughing, a thin stream of water falling over his lips. He looked up through blurry eyes and saw the Alpha lying on his back by the water's edge, his throat torn out and still bleeding. He wretched again.

Derek seized him around the waist and half-carried, half-dragged Stiles through the woods, his feet barely touching the ground with the fast pace. Derek pulled open the passenger door of his Camaro and dumped Stiles onto the seat, shutting the door behind him and moving to the driver's side. He got in and started the car, turning the heaters all the way up to max.

Stiles opened his mouth, to apologise to Derek for stepping outside of the circle, to tell him that they couldn't just leave the body there where it could be found, but he found that he couldn't talk. His lungs were burning and his entire body was shaking from the cold, the fingers of his bare hand already turning a pale blue. Derek said nothing, just put the car in gear and drove to Stiles' house. 

The entire drive was silent, save for Stiles' chattering teeth. Derek parked the car on the drive – the sheriff was working the night shift – and got out, walking round to Stiles' door and dragging him out unceremoniously. He shoved his hand into Stiles' soaked jacket pocket and pulled out his key, opening the door and bundling Stiles through before kicking the door shut behind them.

Stiles tried to complain as he was manhandled up the stairs and into his bathroom, but his mouth still wasn't cooperating, so he had to settle for a glare over his shoulder. Derek didn't even look at him, just pulled open his jacket, snarling as his scarf got snagged in the zipper. Stiles let out a squeak as the fabric tightened around his neck, and Derek ripped it away from him, throwing it behind him into the sink.

“I- I- m'o- o- k- k- kay- y,” Stiles tried to say, but Derek just snorted and continued pulling at the sleeves of Stiles' hoodie, ripping it over his head, the t-shirt beneath going with it. Stiles tried to cover his now naked chest, but his whole body was quaking with the bone-deep cold and all he could manage was a brief spasm.

Derek turned and fiddled with the shower for a moment, before leaning down and pulling off Stiles' sneakers and socks. His hands moved to his jeans, and before Stiles could even process what was happening Derek had opened the fly and was pulling down his pants.

“Waahhh!” Stiles squeaked as he felt hands on his bare ass cheeks, before his boxers were pulled back up and Derek pulled his jeans down over his knees.

“Get in.” Derek gestured with his head at the shower as he ripped the jeans from around Stiles' feet, making him stumble. Stiles tried to right himself against the wall, but Derek just grabbed his elbow and manhandled him into the tub, the spray hitting Stiles in the face.

“It-it's c- cold!” Stiles gasped out, trying to back away from the cold water, but Derek held him firmly in place, the sleeves of his long t-shirt getting wet along with Stiles.

“You don't use hot water first, that will just make your body go into shock,” Derek said, in a tone of voice that suggested even he couldn't believe Stiles was that stupid. “Once you've got your body temperature a bit higher, I'll turn the water hotter.”

Stiles stood in the tub, his boxers clinging to him as the cold water slid over him. A small part of his brain was quietly freaking out over the fact that he was standing nearly naked in the shower with Derek _freaking_ Hale holding onto his waist, but the bigger part of him was just waiting for the wracking shudders to subside.

After a few minutes, the shivers calmed down to just goosebumps and the occasional quake, and Derek let go of Stiles and turned up the heat. Stiles moaned as the feeling came back into his fingers and toes, turning his head up into the spray. 

“Don't stay in there too long.” Derek pulled the shower curtain around him, and Stiles heard the door open and softly shut after a little while.

Stiles waited until the numbness in his hands was completely gone before he pulled down his sodden underwear and grabbed the shower gel. He gave himself a quick wash, hissing as he rubbed around his neck. He turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel from the heated railing. He saw a pile of clothes on the side of the sink, and realised Derek must have grabbed them as he left. He smiled as he toweled himself dry and pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt. It made him feel... something.

He threw his wet boxers into the laundry basket in the corner and opened the door, crossing the hall into his bedroom. He wasn't really surprised to find Derek leaning against the window, his arms crossed and his You Fucked Up expression pulling his eyebrows down.

Stiles sighed. “I know, I know, I didn't follow your rules, and you're really pissed at me right now.” He flopped onto his bed, sliding his feet under the sheets and pulling the blanket up to his neck. “But considering I almost had my throat ripped out and then almost drowned and or froze to death in the space of like, a minute, do you think we could save the lecture for tomorrow?” He squinted one eye at Derek. “I'd really just like to sleep now.”

Derek moved over to the bed and reached out, pulling the blanket down to Stiles' chest. He pressed his thumb against a spot on Stiles' neck and he hissed at the dart of pain. “That's how close you were tonight, Stiles.” Derek rumbled, his thumb moving over to another spot and then another, pointing out where each claw from the Alpha had broken the skin. “When I tell you to do something, you do it.” His eyes burned holes into Stiles', before he straightened, his hand falling from Stiles' neck.

“Y-yeah, o-okay, I g-get it.” Stiles was shivering again; now that the heat of the shower had faded, his body was reminding him that he'd just been dunked into a freezing lake.

“You're still cold.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “well yeah, I did just go for a swim in the middle of winter. Hey, wha-” Derek had toed off his boots and climbed onto the bed beside him, curling his arm around Stiles' chest over the covers. Stiles' entire body shut down for a moment, but then the heat of Derek's body slid over him through the blankets, and his shivering died down.

“You know,” he yawned. “This touching thing is starting to become a habit.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles smiled as the heat began to lull him to sleep. “Mm'kay.” He fell asleep to the feel of Derek's arm tight around his chest, puffs of warm air gliding over the back of his neck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this chapter is incredibly late, but I broke my wrist recently and it takes a ridiculous amount of time to type anything at all, which has been frustrating and annoying, but there you go. Luckily, I'd already written most of the the final chapter before it happened, so there shouldn't be much of a wait until the last update. Um, yay?
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains explicit description of a panic attack, jsyk. People suffer from panic attacks in very different ways, so this description is from my own personal experiences.

“Derek? Derek, where are you? You know what, it doesn't matter, just get your werewolf ass over here right now.”

Stiles could hear his cell cracking in his too tight grip, but he couldn't force his fingers to loosen. His vision was blurred slightly and his chest was tight, breath coming in short gasps that refused to fill his lungs.

“Stiles. Where are you.” Derek voice was tinny and too far away sounding for Stiles' liking, but he heard the distant sound of heavy boots on cement and knew that Derek was moving.

“My house.” His voiced dropped to a whisper, not enough air in his lungs to expel the words with as much strength as he'd like. He wanted to be strong, needed to be able to prove to all the supernatural beings that now comprised his group of friends that he had just as much to offer as they did, but right at this moment, he couldn't. He just... he _couldn't._ “Please, just get here now, okay?” He knew how he sounded, his throat clogged from trying desperately to hold onto himself and not panic, but right now he really couldn't bring himself to care.

“I'm coming. Just... just stay where you are.”

The phone went dead in his hand, and Stiles shoved it back in his jacket pocket, his shaking fingers making him fumble and almost drop it twice. He pulled at the neck of his shirt, feeling his heart beat thumping loud and fast against his arm. He reached up and pinched away the moisture gathering in his eyes and looked down at the floor, before swinging his gaze purposefully away again with a flinch. But it didn't matter, because the dark splotches had imprinted themselves onto his eyelids and he saw them all over again in vivid detail; the smeared hand print along the wall by the stairs, the turned over hallway table, splashes of blood leading out of the house and down the driveway, one bigger stain that had pooled and then been smudged across the sidewalk, as though something had been dragged through it. Oh _God_ , all that _blood_.

A flash of lights blinded him for a moment, and Stiles squinted into the glare as Derek's Camaro screeched to a halt across the end of his driveway. Derek jumped out, a look somewhere between concern and irritation melting away and being replaced with one of wary hostility as he took in the sight before him. With a quick look at Stiles, he strode up the path and stopped in front of the door, hand stretching out to finger the broken hinges and splintered wood. Stiles watched as Derek stepped carefully into the hallway, his legs bent and tensed for attack, claws slipping out from under the cuffs of his leather jacket.

Derek disappeared into the dark recesses of the house, and Stiles didn't bother to call out to him and tell him that he'd already done that, already ripped his way through each of the rooms, coming to a sudden and painful halt in front of the blood spatter lining the kitchen wall. He couldn't, his throat was still far too tight.

Minutes passed and Stiles stood there on the grass verge, one hand tearing at his shirt collar, trying to get more air. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what this was, knew he had to concentrate on breathing, but he just couldn't focus. All that blood, all that blood and his house empty and his Dad who was supposed to be at home right the fuck now and _oh God where was his Dad?_

The doorway in front of him loomed darker for a second before Derek reappeared, holding something in his hand. Stiles looked down and realised it was his Dad's gun belt, which meant his Dad hadn't been wearing it at the time and hadn't been able to even try and defend himself... 

Stiles' knees finally gave out and he sank down into the grass, his body folding in on itself as he crumpled into a ball. He really was crying now, he could feel the wetness as it dripped onto his jeans, but he only recognised it in an abstract kind of way, like the way he had stared curiously at the cut the rose stem had given him as he'd dropped the flower onto his mother's casket. His vision narrowed to tiny pinpricks as he leaned his head on his knees, his chest cramping with sobs unable to release themselves, his hands clenched into fists in the grass in front of him. He knew this was absolutely the wrong thing to do, knew he needed to keep upright to force air back into his lungs so that he could breathe again but really, what was the point now? He wasn't stupid, and in his weird and wacky treks through the internet he had stumbled over many facts and figures and he knew with a terrible, horrifying certainty that no human could have survived that amount of blood loss. The one thing, the one thing that he knew throughout this whole strange and terrifying journey into werewolves and kanimas and stupid special herbs and pointless ash, the one thing that would break him had finally happened. There was no point to anything anymore. 

The pain in his chest sharpened and his temple started throbbing. He could feel his pulse in the back of his skull and he could hear the harsh, ragged breaths as his body tried desperately to find a way to get air in past his convulsing throat. His vision was almost completely black and he could feel sweat beginning to bead in his hairline. He could hear nothing except the fierce rushing of blood... wait no, that wasn't true. He could hear something, but the sound was dulled and distorted, like trying to hear someone talk while diving down to the bottom of a pool.

A sudden flash image of that moment in the pool lit up behind his eyelids; for a second, he could feel the burn in his muscles from holding Derek up and swimming in place as he struck out for the side, could hear Derek's bubbling protest at being let go.

Stiles came back to himself, minutely, enough for him to remember that his body was in the process of shutting down from too little air for far too long, enough to realise that it was Derek he could hear over the roar of blood in his ears. But Derek was still too far away for him to hear what he was saying, and Stiles was sinking too deeply...

A sudden pressure came down on the back of his neck, hot and too hard before easing up, moving in small little shifts from side to side. A squeezing pressure and then his forehead was lifting off of his knees, the quick, harsh breath sounds at once both louder and quieter in the open air. Something knocked into Stiles' legs before more heat touched his cheek, something silky and yet roughly textured moved across his cheek bone once, twice, three times. The heat from his neck slid round to his other cheek and then the same movement happened, right under his eye. Stiles concentrated on the warm, supple pressure on his face, feeling heat emanate out more at the points that felt just on the cusp of too hard.

“Jesus, Stiles, just... tell me what to do, I don't... did you hear me? It's not-”

Derek's voice faded in and out, and Stiles felt the coils of rope around his chest loosen slightly. His vision opened up, showing him a pale blob with a dark halo inches from his face.

“It's not his, are you hearing me? It's not his blood! Stiles, listen to me!”

The words entered Stiles' mind and rolled around, breaking apart and then reforming, banging haphazardly from one neuron to another until their message got through. As if disconnected from himself, he felt as his chest eased slowly, expanding outward more with every gratefully sucked lungful of air. He listened as the roar in his ears slowly turned down the volume on itself and his eyes cleared, Derek's face now seen clearly right in front of him, features blurred by nothing more than the wetness in his eyes.

Derek must have realised the change in him, or maybe he heard the beating of Stiles' heart die down to its usual uneven rhythm, because he blew out a breath, his fingers lessening their pressure around Stiles' face.

“Yes, I'm positive.” Derek nodded his head once, answering a question Stiles hadn't realised he'd asked. “It's one of the Alphas, their scents are all over the place, they must've...” Derek cuts himself off and shakes his head, ducking down to look into Stiles' eyes, assessing him for damage. Of the physical kind, anyway. Stiles isn't sure he's ever going to get over the emotional trauma the last half hour had given him.

“Then what... what happened?” Stiles gasped out, his voice thready and quiet. 

“I have a few theories,” Derek's fingers, still clasped around Stiles, slid down from his cheeks to his throat, settling in with a slight pressure over his pulse. Stiles slid his eyes shut, the warm press of fingers taking him past the point of normal and further into calmness. “It's why I brought your father's belt out, to ask you... I didn't know what was...”

“Panic attack,” Stiles supplied, his breathing finally normal again, if a little on the heavy side. “I haven't had one in a while, so it, kinda blindsided me.”

Derek nodded thoughtfully and slowly pulled his hands away from Stiles, and Stiles had to fight back the urge to ask him to put them back. Derek picked up the belt from where he had flung it down to crouch down and handed it to Stiles, who took it with shaking hands.

“He wears this when he's in his uniform, does he wear it when he's not working?”

“Hey, you actually phrased a question like a question!” Stiles almost laughed until understanding hit him and he gasped quietly. “Was there a holster hanging next to the belt?” Derek frowned and tilted his head to the side for a moment, before shaking it from side to side. Stiles let out a sigh of relief, ending in a short laugh as he hugged the stiff belt to his chest. “He wears a shoulder holster when he goes out the house off duty, he wouldn't even go to the store without it.” He looked up at Derek, sobering up as relief turned into fear at what had actually happened, at what could have happened had his Dad been here. He swallowed, hard. “So what... why were they here? What was with all the blood?”

Derek looked away at that, his gaze focusing on the damage to the front door. “I guess they had a fight with each other; I smelled two different blood types and at least one more with them.”

“They broke in to have a fight in my kitchen?” Stiles raised his eyebrows but didn't really expect an answer; Derek had that look on his face – his I-Know-Something-But-I'm-Not-Sharing look – that normally made Stiles want to punch him in his unfairly chiseled jaw. He knelt up in the grass and fumbled around in his pocket for his phone, grimacing as the wet ground made its presence known through his jeans.

“What are you doing.”

Stiles would have rolled his eyes at the return of the statements-instead-of-questions thing, but he was still feeling a little woozy and didn't think that would help him much. “I'm calling my Dad.” He pulled up the number and hovered his thumb over the call button. “Find out where he is and see how long I've got to clean up all this mess.” He waved his arm at the door and driveway in front of him, but stopped quickly when it made his head spin.

Even though Stiles knew now that his dad hadn't been hurt, he still experienced a little thrill of relief as his voice picked up on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad, where are you?” Stiles concentrated on making himself sound as normal as possible, but he knew he'd done a poor job of it when the first thing his dad did was ask if he was alright. “Yeah, fine! Absolutely great! No problem here, hey have you eaten yet?” His dad's sigh could be heard over Stiles' rambling, and he slammed his lips shut.

“No, not yet. Mrs Kierney needed help with her heating. I probably won't be done for at least another couple of hours.”

“Two hours? Okay, I can work with that.” Stiles shut his eyes tight for a second, mentally telling himself to shut up. “I mean, just give me a call when you're on your way home? I'll put dinner in the oven so it's ready, okay?”

“Sure, Son. Now get home and do your homework.”

“Homework, yep, gonna get right on that as soon as I get home, because homework is like the most important thing that I need to do so...” His dad hung up long before his rambling was over, so Stiles pocketed his phone and looked back at Derek, blinking as he noticed how close he still was.

“Right, so we have two hours minimum to clean up this mess before my dad gets home.” Stiles braces his hands against the grass as he pulls himself up off his knees. 

“I don't think we'll have time to fix the door.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, sarcastic comment on his lips, but the words died as he pitched forward, still light-headed and apparently very unsteady on his feet. His forehead knocked painfully into Derek's shoulder as strong hands grabbed his waist and stopped him from crumpling. Derek raised himself slowly from his crouched position, bringing Stiles up with him and keeping him steady. Stubble stroked against Stiles' cheek and he froze, before lifting his head carefully away from Derek. He tried to take a step back but stumbled, and Derek's grip around his waist tightened.

“You need to sit down for a while.” Derek pulled him close and slid his arm around Stiles' waist, walking them up the path and in through the house.

“Th-thanks,” Stiles muttered as Derek deposited him on the couch and moved through to the kitchen. He put a hand up to his cheek, unconsciously tracing the path of Derek's stubble.

Derek's voice floated to him from the kitchen. “Where do you keep the bleach?”

“In the garage,” Stiles started pushing himself up off the sofa only to freeze as a hot hand pressed down on his shoulder.

“Stay there,” Derek said, pressing down harder to make his point. “The clean up will go a lot faster if I don't have to keep picking you up off the floor.”

“Ha ha.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes but stayed where he was. He was still feeling a little light headed. Somehow, he didn't think the touching thing was helping him much either. He sat for a while, listening to Derek's movements as he went about bleaching the blood off all the surfaces. His werewolf senses would help him pick up any stray droplets much better than Stiles' could anyway. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even and not too deep, thinking up a good lie that he could tell his dad about the door that would sound plausible. He hated that this had become his life; thinking up lies to tell his dad. Each untruth just seemed to push them further apart, until they had become strangers passing each other in the hallways.

“Blood's all gone,” Derek said as he walked back into the living room, startling Stiles out of his thoughts. “Any idea how you're going to explain away the door?”

“I'm going to have to say I did it, because if I say anything else, my dad will have the whole place treated like a crime scene which, would be bad.” He put his head in his hands. “No idea what I'm going to say I did it with though.”

Derek moved off and Stiles got up and followed, watching as Derek replaced the hall table and crouched down to study the damage done to the door. Derek reached out a hand and smacked against the raised lump in the wood from where a booted foot had kicked from the other side. Stiles opened his mouth to protest something about more damage, when he realised that with each controlled hit the door was slowly bending back into shape. Derek did the same to the door frame, and then shut the door carefully. Stiles raised his eyebrows, impressed, as he heard the lock click into place. 

“I might be able to just get away with just my general clumsiness as an excuse now. Guess werewolves are handy to have around.” 

He put his hand down on Derek's shoulder, meaning for it to be a friendly pat and somehow turning it into a sort of caress instead. He stared at his hand, until Derek rose up and they both watched it fall away.

Stiles took a deep breath, then another. “Right, well, thank for uh. You know, coming when I called and uh. You know, stuff.” Derek nodded stiffly. “So, I'm just gonna um. Go upstairs. To um, my room. I'll see you around, I guess.” Stiles swung his arms awkwardly and turned to the stairs, pausing once he'd reached the third step and felt a presence close behind him. “You're following me?”

Derek prodded him in the shoulder. “Just making sure you don't fall over backwards and break your neck.”

Stiles huffed out a breath and resignedly walked up the rest of the stairs and into his room, flopping face down gratefully on his bed. “I take it you'll be using the werewolf door?” He mumbled into his pillow, one arm gesturing in the direction of the window.

“They were here for me.”

Stiles frowned into his pillow and then turned over to look for Derek. He found him leaning against his desk, glaring at the far wall as though the obvious lack of scorch marks or mould had offended him.

“Wait, what?” Stiles asked eventually, when the whole Alphas in his kitchen thing clicked in his head and it became clear that Derek wasn't going to elaborate. “Why would they think you'd be here?”

“Because we've been seen together, and they've followed my scent here. I should have been more careful.” 

Derek's brow pulled down further, and his expression morphed into something that at first Stiles couldn't decipher. When he finally did, he almost laughed out loud.

“Dude, was that an apology? Because oh my God, you seriously suck at that!” Stiles stood up again and walked towards Derek, getting in between his glaring match with the wall. Derek glared at him instead, then shoved away from the desk and moved towards the window.

“Hey, wait,” Stiles grabbed his arm to stop him. “Look, I'm not going to pretend it didn't freak me out, because you saw that it absolutely did. And I'm not going to pretend that I am fine with having one more thing that I have to sort out, because it sucks and you know I think it sucks. But I'm not looking for an apology, Derek.” Stiles pulled himself up straight to look Derek in the eyes. “I signed onto this. I agreed to help and I knew that the more involved I got the more there might be consequences. I don't need you to feel guilty over the _choices_ that _I_ made, okay?” 

Derek looked back at him, seeming to be searching for something in Stiles' eyes. After a moment he nodded, then reached out and gently pulled Stiles' grip away from his arm, thumb sliding over the pulse point in Stiles' wrist.

“Thanks. For calling me.” 

He still hadn't let go of Stiles' wrist.

Stiles smiled. “Thanks for coming.”

Stiles' phone buzzed in his pocket and Derek pulled his hand away. “It's my dad, he's on his way home.” He closed the text and threw the phone on the bed. When he turned back, his room was empty and the window was open. Stiles sighed, exhausted and confused. He walked back downstairs to make a start on dinner for his dad, fingers coming up to encircle his wrist.

This was a fairly new development. Of course, he'd noticed that Derek was ridiculously good looking, even if he never smiled and looked like he was about to kill everyone around him with the power of his mind. But it had always been in a detached way, like in the same way he noticed Jackson's hotness. Derek was just so damn depressing and still a little scary to think of with anything other than sarcasm. 

And then Derek had pulled him out of the freezing lake and held him until his shivers died down, long enough into the night that his bed had still held the residual werewolf heat in the cold morning. And so when Stiles had returned home from the library to find blood on the driveway and his front door kicked in, the first person he had thought to call had been Derek. Calling anyone else, even Scott, hadn't even crossed his mind, which was weird and new and Stiles wasn't exactly sure he liked it.

And then there was the whole touching thing. Stiles was an expert on taking note of every little touch or glance he received from Lydia, but he hadn't really noticed until this evening that recently he'd been doing the exact same thing with Derek. The slams into walls had turned into holds around the wrist, steering wheel smashes had turned into hands holding his face.

But the touches themselves weren't the weirdest part for Stiles; he could brush them all off as two people becoming more comfortable with each other as they worked together. It was how he was starting to react to those touches that had Stiles thinking. Every hot press of fingers into his pulse points, every heavy hand laid on his shoulder, made Stiles' breath stutter in his throat and his eyelids flutter.

Stiles moved around the kitchen, slamming things around as he thought about what he was feeling. He scowled down at the salad in front of him as he remembered the feel of Derek's thumbs brushing his tears away. His fingers came back up to touch where his cheek had brushed against Derek's and he crumpled into a kitchen chair, head in his hands. Oh God, why? One unrequited crush was quite enough for Stiles, he had no room for any more. Particularly ones that involved Sourwolves like Derek _freaking_ Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I kind of cheated in this chapter and had Derek touching the wrong kind of cheeks haha! Sorry about that, but I felt like the story needed a kind of sincere moment between the boys before the last chapter. Forgive me?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this was a long time coming? I won't bore you all with the details, but basically RL blew up in all manner of ways for me recently, and then the plot bunnies attacked with another Sterek story that I just had to start writing before my stupid brain would let me think about this, so. Um, sorry? Anyway, here's the final chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it, and maybe come back and have a look at my next fic when it's done? Thanks to everyone who has read this story, as my first foray into the realm of Sterek you guys have really made me feel welcome in fandom! *kisses*

Derek received the text message an hour after sunset, just as Erica, Boyd and Isaac had shown up for the full moon. _We have your boy._

Derek had known this was coming sooner or later. The Alpha pack had turned up in town specifically for this, and Derek was honestly surprised that it had taken this long to get them to this point. All the running around, sometimes away from each other, sometimes towards each other, the traps and the threats; they had all been opening acts, there to raise anticipation for the main event. But now here it was, and Derek finally had a choice to make. Only it wasn't a choice, never had been really. Maybe if they had chosen anyone else, if it had been Erica, or Boyd, or hell, even Isaac, Derek might have had a moment of indecision, a moment of wondering if joining them would really be so bad. Of course, Derek likes to think he'd make the right choice anyway, do the decent thing, but he knows that deep down there's a part of him that just wants the struggle to be over, to hand over the crushing weight of responsibility to someone else. But instead, the Alphas had chosen the one person that made this decision ridiculously easy, so easy that the realisation of this gave Derek pause, a stutter in his stride as he ran through the woods. But there wasn't time for him to stop and analyse this sudden revelation; he had to go to the rescue, and then hope like hell that they somehow made it out alive.

He rounded the lake, the moonlight glinting off the glassy surface and forcing the memory of watching Stiles plummet into its icy depths a few weeks before. He shook his head with a growl, his fangs slipping over his lower lip as he thought about the confrontation about to take place. The pack had chosen the night of the full moon to take their final stand, confident in their knowledge that Derek's rag tag group of misfit teenagers had yet to master control over their changes. Derek would have to do this alone, he would have to go to them and make the choice between dying and joining their pack. Either way, this whole thing should finally be over. Derek could almost taste his relief.

The ground flew beneath his hands and feet as he ran, pounding out a punishing rhythm as he made his way through the woods. The air around him held a hint of the grass-honey-orange smell that Derek now knew meant Stiles had been this way recently. He'd tasted that same scent in the air the first night back in Beacon Hills, the trail winding it's way through the woods close to where he'd finally found Laura. It had stunned him at first; transporting him back to the day he'd sat in the police station as they were told what had happened to his family, the scent older and not as potent, but still woven deeply around the building, the way people's scents had a habit of blending with the structure of their own homes. He'd smelled the scent of a new werewolf the following day, but it had been that grass-honey-orange smell that had led him to where Scott was.

That same scent seemed to follow him all over town, something Derek had noticed without really paying any attention to until recently. He'd smell it in the woods, outside his house, even in his car. The scent would linger there, long after all traces of it should have dissipated, lodging in his sinuses until he became attuned to seeking it out, always the first and strongest scent he could pick out of a crowd. For the longest time, Derek hadn't really associated it with a particular person; he knew that the scent meant that Scott had to be somewhere close, and that was as deep as he thought about it. Now he wonders if that had been a purposeful decision from his subconscious; not willing to let him figure things out until he was ready. He's still not sure if he's ready.

Because the thought of Stiles in trouble made his blood boil as it rushed through his veins, made his chest hurt with the heat of it, brought his fangs and claws ever closer to the surface. A remote part of him realised that this was different; he was angry that Stiles had been taken, and anger had been his anchor for so many years now that it was weird, but not entirely unwelcome, to find that it had changed somehow, some _when._

The scent he was following got stronger as he left the lake further behind him, and then suddenly the trees began to thin in front of him. Derek slowed his pace, let his hands and feet become lighter, more precise. He knew that he wouldn't be able to sneak up on them entirely, but he could at least give himself enough time to scope out the situation before the Alphas became aware of his presence. He stepped up to the line of old and twisted trunks at the edge of a clearing, keeping himself downwind and his movements silent. Now that he saw it, he wasn't surprised that they hadn't been able to find out where the Alpha pack had been staying. Derek had assumed that they had kept themselves moving around – it's what he would have done if he'd been in someone else's territory – to keep their scent from getting too entrenched. He rolled his eyes slightly at himself; he should have thought of the possibility that they'd find themselves somewhere so far out of the way that nobody would think to look.

The log cabin didn't look like much from the outside, the roof lopsided and the porch sagging almost to the ground, but Derek realised that this was exactly why the pack had chosen this place for their hide out. An old hunter's lodge that had fallen into so much disrepair that even during hunting season people wouldn't think to come here. Smoke chuffed out the precariously balanced chimney, and a flickering light lit up the dusty windows, shadows moving across the frost covered ground as people moved within the confines of the small building. 

Derek sucked in a lungful of cold air and closed his eyes, trying to quell the mounting panic. He hadn't been near a lit flame in years. He held his breath as he tried to tell himself to concentrate, and in the sudden silence a familiar sound floated to him. Stiles' heartbeat, loud and irregular and all but drowning out the four other beats that came from inside the cabin. The panic faded away as Derek listened intently, trying to gauge by the upticks and flares what the situation was like. Derek tuned them out for a moment, concentrating instead on his pack and their movements. Satisfied they were still safe, he opened his eyes and crept silently closer, drawn by the heartbeat he'd been listening to for longer than he realised.

*****

“You know, not that I don't appreciate the hospitality, because that is one roaring fire you guys have got going on – kudos for that, by the way – but this chair really isn't the most comfortable thing to be sitting on, you know?”

Stiles flicked his tongue out and wet his lips, a nervous gesture that he didn't bother to try and contain; they'd be able to smell his fear anyway. Or hear it, or something. Damn werewolves. His throat was dry and his voice was cracking from overuse and under-lubrication, but he didn't bother trying to reign that in either. If these guys were dumb enough to not gag him, then he was going to make the most of it. Time to see if his mom had been right, and he could actually talk someone to death.

“Because I gotta say, my ass is all kinds of numb, and I think I'm getting pins and needles in my arms. Also, my nose is really itchy, do you think it only does that when you can't move your arms? Like, I get in bed at night, and I'm all cosy and warm, and then suddenly my nose starts itching and I really wanna scratch it, but at the same time I really don't wanna move my arms. Do you guys ever get that? Or is it just a human thing and not a werewolf thing? I need to add this to the list of things to ask Derek, hey do any of you guys have a pen and paper handy?”

The werewolf sitting slouched on the threadbare couch glared at him, before throwing a baleful look at the guy leaning near the door. The guy just shook his head once, an order, and suddenly Stiles was itching to understand how the hierarchy works in an Alpha pack. And, seeing as how he had nothing better to do...

“So, how does this hierarchy thing work with you guys? Do you all like, take turns being head Alpha? Like, for a month maybe? Or even longer, like a year? How long have you all been running together anyway? Did you all kill your Alphas to become what you are? Is that like a prerequisite for joining your group? Or is that just a bonus?” 

“Jesus Christ, would you just shut the fuck up!” The guy seated behind him suddenly explodes, leaning forward with his claws outstretched. Stiles looked at the hand, close to his neck, and leans back as far as his chair would allow.

“You know, this little conversation would go a lot easier if I knew your names. I can't keep calling you all Guy 1, 2, 3, and 4 forever, it just gets confusing for everyone involved.”

He looked back at the guy leaning by the door, his hair dark and straggly, his gaze mean but serious. Stiles knew that this was the one they had to watch out for; the guy sitting on the couch just looked like he wanted to kill things just for kicks, which probably made him more than a little stupid; the guy behind him seemed to be itching for a fight, and it looked personal, which would make him enthusiastic enough to make a big mistake and get himself taken out; the one hunched on the floor by the fire just looked bored as hell, which probably meant that he could be talked out of a situation. But the guy by the door, the leader, he looked angry, like he had an honest to God vendetta. Stiles would have laughed over just how _DC Comics_ this all was, if he wasn't at least 90% certain he was going to die bloody very soon. He looked harder out the corner of his eye at the guy just behind him, taking in the rough facial hair and the shape of his eyes as the guy looked back at him, anger just barely simmering beneath the surface. And then suddenly Stiles understood.

“The uh, other guy, Guy no.5. He was his brother, right?” He was looking at the guy by the door, but he threw his chin in the direction of the guy werewolf behind him.

Stiles knew he had guessed right from the reactions of the other three werewolves in the room. It wasn't their movements that tipped him off exactly, more that the tension in the small, hot room suddenly shot up a few more degrees. They all seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for their leader to react. Except for the one behind him, who growled and flexed his claws.

The guy by the door glared at him for a long moment, his arms crossed over his chest and a muscle jumping in his cheek. “He was. And Derek will pay for what he did to him before the night is over.”

And, seriously? Did the guy realise just how much of a James Bond villain he sounded like?

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Well, no offense to the man, I'm sure he was a really swell guy under all the murder and bad personal hygiene, but if he hadn't tried to kill people, maybe he'd still be around.”

The guy grunted. “Alphas shouldn't kill other Alphas.”

Stiles snorted. “Seriously? That's what you're going with? What is that, the subtitle to your manifesto? What, werewolves are better than humans and Alphas are better than werewolves, is that it? Oh my God, how are you not in therapy?” The werewolf narrowed his eyes but didn't reply, and suddenly Stiles had another question he was just burning to ask. 

“So, what was that with my house last week? With all the uh, breaking and entering and the blood?” Stiles licked his lips again. “Was that supposed to be some kind of weird Alpha message that Derek was supposed to understand? Because if so, I gotta say, Derek might have all the muscles and the red flashy eyes, but he's not so hot on the whole 'thinking' side of things, you know? I think it's all the brooding and lurking he does, it takes up too much of his brain power to leave room for working stuff out. So if you're coming after Derek for his smarts, I'm just saying I think you're working on some dodgy intel there.”

The guy on the couch actually buried his head in his hands, and the werewolf by the fire got a glazed expression, like he didn't understand the words that Stiles was saying. It didn't bother Stiles; he was used to looks like that. The one by the door just looked at him though, as if he had no trouble following Stiles' rambling train of thought. Oh yeah, this guy was the one to watch, for sure.

“We followed your scents, we were going to wait for when you showed up, but Jerry wanted to make an example of you. For what you did to his brother. I had to... persuade him to wait a little longer.”

Stiles snorted. “Jerry?” He turned his head as much as he could to look at the guy behind him. “Your name is Jerry? Dude, if you're thinking about making this 'criminal werewolf' thing into a career, I would seriously consider changing you name if I were you. Maybe to something like, _Nightclaws._ That has a good villain-y ring to it. Jerry though? Sounds like you should be working at the all night Gas N' Sip.”

“Like you can talk. What kind of a name is Stiles?” The alpha on the couch suddenly leaned forward, as if he was actually curious in the origin of Stiles' name.

Stiles smiled widely. “I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” A disbelieving chuckle came from the guy poking the fire. “Well okay, maybe I wouldn't be the one to do the actual killing, but I would be the guy who set it up. Because, what I was saying about Derek? He might not be the smartest cookie in the jar, but he knows enough. He keeps me around because I am the best at planning.”

The guy on the couch grinned. “That's not the only reason.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Well, I'm also amazing at research, and being the only human who can stand to be around him means I'm also pretty much the only option for things like playing bait and stuff, and then there's the whole I can touch wolfsbane but he can't thing, which helps a bunch. Basically, I am just awesome. It's okay, you can admit it, I promise to keep it just between us guys.”

The guy on the couch snorted and opened his mouth to retort, but he was interrupted by the one by the door.

“He doesn't know yet.” The werewolf gave him a grim smile. “We should let Derek tell him.”

“I don't know what? Is this like, something all werewolves do, become annoyingly reticent about giving out information? Because I gotta say, not one of your more admirable traits.”

“You'll find out soon enough,” the guy replied, standing away from the wall and closing his hand around the doorknob. Then he raised his voice louder. “Come on in, Derek.”

He twisted the doorknob and pulled it open, and Derek stepped inside, a gust of cold air making the flames dance in the grate. Claws suddenly shot over Stiles' shoulder, claws pressing sharply against the skin of his neck.

“Derek will tell you exactly why he keeps you around, just before he watches me rip out your throat.” The guy whispered into his ear, warm puffs of fetid breath against his skin making Stiles' stomach roll.

*****

Derek hadn't tried to keep his advancement up to the cabin a secret. He was up against four other werewolves, all Alphas who had had more time than he had to hone their skills; there wasn't a chance in hell that he could surprise them with his presence. Instead, he had simply walked up the old and cracked wooden steps and stood on the porch, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, letting the familiar off-beat rhythm of a heartbeat anchor him in the moment. He needed to appear to be in control, he needed to confuse their senses. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to his grandmother for teaching him how to control his heart rate, how to convince his body to emit a different scent to what he was actually feeling. He knew it wouldn't work for long, not against a pack made up entirely of Alphas, but Derek hoped he could fool them into thinking he didn't care what they did long enough for his plan to work.

He hoped Stiles would be able to play his part even without being told what it was.

He could hear Stiles' voice as though they were standing right next to each other, could hear the way his heart raced and then slowed and then sped up again as he talked. He heard the werewolf behind the door move and he opened his eyes, took one last breath before the door opened before him and he stepped inside.

Derek didn't look at Stiles at first, though he heard the sharp intake of breath as the werewolf behind him dug his claws into Stiles' neck. Derek kept his eyes trained on the guy at the door, knowing instinctively that this was the one who was in charge. He had been taught from an early age how to deal with Alphas from other packs, and he didn't think it would be too much different with an Alpha pack; be respectful but confident, courteous but firm. He met the Alpha's gaze head on, struggling to keep the red from his eyes as the sound and smell of Stiles' fear threatened to make him lose control. He needed to stay in control for longer.

“Nice of you to join us, Derek.” The Alpha smiled, a glint of teeth purposefully showing between his chapped lips. “We were beginning to wonder if you'd ever get here.”

“I had things to deal with first,” Derek replied simply, knowing the Alpha would know he meant his pack.

“Oh I'm so sorry, Derek, did my kidnapping get in the way of movie night?” Stiles' voice was high and thin, trying for indignation and missing by a mile. Derek chanced a glance over, needing to make sure, and found Stiles' amber eyes glaring back at him, his anger shot through with fear evident in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw.

 _Good,_ Derek thought, _get angry. I need you to be angry. I need you talking._ He raised an eyebrow at Stiles and suppressed a thrill of triumph from rushing through him as he watched the fear recede to be replaced with wrath in Stiles' eyes.

“Okay, you know what? As soon as we are out of this mess, I am done, do you hear me?” Stiles' voice came through stronger this time, his ire growing as Derek stood and stared back at him passively. “I mean it, no more ordering me to research, no more scowl-y eyebrows, no more climbing through my window at night-”

Stiles' rant was cut off by a laugh from the werewolf still sitting on the sofa, his every outward appearance one of relaxed enjoyment, but Derek knew that he was poised for a fight, could feel the thrum of tension as it held itself taught beneath the surface. He knew it wouldn't be long.

“He does all that with you, and yet you still haven't realised?” The werewolf slid his gaze over to Derek and the Alpha in charge. “We've stumbled onto a real brain trust here.” His eyes fixed on Derek, faint amusement barely concealing the malevolence beneath. “You should be begging to join us, Derek, we'd find you a much better match without even trying.”

“A better match? What the hell does that mean?” Stiles seemed to forget momentarily the position he was in as he leaned forward, jumping and hissing slightly as he felt the claws at his neck dig in deeper. “You really think he'd be better off with you?” He snorted, struggling to hold on to his calm exterior, even though he must have known it was pointless while surrounded by werewolves. “I mean, sure, his current pack is made up of teenagers with severe abandonment issues and an unnerving ability to carry off the leather look, but at least they bathe regularly. Because seriously?” He turned his head as far as he dared and rolled his eyes up to meet the guy standing behind him, one hand still at his throat, the other twisted in the back of his collar. “Brushing those bad boys doesn't make you weak, dude. Everybody loves a pearly white smile.”

The werewolf growled and Derek shuddered to keep from tensing as he watched his hands clench tighter, heard Stiles hiss through his teeth as thin rivulets of blood ran down from the pinpoints the claws made as they finally pierced skin. The anger that Derek was barely managing to hold onto surged through his veins, willing him to jump across the room and plunge his teeth into the Alpha's neck, and he clenched his fists together, listening to the sound of Stiles' heartbeat as it sped up and dropped again and again. He only needed to hold on a little longer.

“Enough,” the Alpha in charge said harshly, drawing himself up to his full height. “Derek, you know why we're here. We want you to join us.” He looked serenely at Derek, as though he was offering him a lifetime's supply of coupons instead of a join or die decision. “You know the offer, and you know what will happen to you if you decline. So, make your choice, and make it now.”

Derek tilted his head to the side, his hands still clenched into fists at his side. “Let him go, and I'll join you,” he said, looking the Alpha in the eye again.

“What?” Stiles' voice was raspy but still strong, and he rocked forward in his seat again, despite the claws still embedded shallowly in his pale skin.

The Alpha was already shaking his head. “He has to die, for what he did to our brother, and you have to watch him die for your part in it. But the rest of your pack will be left alone if you choose to come with us now.”

Derek frowned as though deep in thought, suppressing a sigh of relief as Stiles started talking again, louder and faster, words tripping over one another as he spluttered his disbelief. Derek let go of his emotions, let them spread out through the cabin, the frantic beating of his heart, the scent of fear and worry so strong he wouldn't have been surprised if they could taste it. He felt a subtle shift deep in his chest and knew that it was time. 

He threw a look at Stiles, who stopped mid tirade, his eyes widening. “Oh, shit,” he said quietly, then squeezed his eyes shut and pushed off with his feet, throwing himself diagonally backwards, away from the claws in his neck as his wooden chair toppled over. The werewolf behind him lunged to grab him, just as the window next to him exploded.

Derek didn't wait to see what happened, just let the last vestiges of his control slip away as he reached out for the Alpha in front of him with his claws outstretched. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Isaac stand up from his roll through the window, his eyes glowing yellow as he stood over the Alpha that had been holding Stiles. He heard the door behind him crash open just as another window smash, and knew that both Boyd and Erica had entered the fray. 

He ducked just in time to miss a swipe of claws aimed for his throat and he dived down low, feeling his claws slice through flesh as he ploughed his hand into stomach muscle. He knew that this was the most dangerous opponent, that once he was defeated the others would likely be brought down in their confusion. He just hoped his pack were up to the task.

*****

Stiles was in pain, and lots of it. His throat was stinging and he could feel blood congealing around his collar bone. He could feel pieces of glass digging into his bare arms and his wrists were rubbed raw from the ropes tied tightly around them, pulling his shoulders back in an uncomfortable position. But what hurt the most was his right arm as he lay on it, trapped between the dirty floor and the chair he was bound to, his own weight grinding down painfully on the bones. Fights were breaking out all around him; Isaac facing off with Jerry, Erica grappling with the guy on the sofa, Boyd's head snapping back as he was hit with a fire poker. He couldn't see over his knees but knew that Derek and the main Alpha were fighting in the corner; he could hear the snarling growls as they bounced off the cabin walls.

He screwed up his face against the pain and arched his back, feeling splinters dig into his skin as he wrenched his arms up, trying to get them out from behind the high chair back. If he could get off the chair, he could help. He pushed his feet against the legs of the chair as he slid his arms upwards inch by painful inch, letting out a choked sob of relief as he felt the burn in his shoulders fade and his arm finally popped out from under the chair. Before he could move anywhere, Isaac slammed down onto him, breaking the chair and smacking Stiles' head painfully on the floor. He was up again in less than a second, snarling with rage and lunging back for his opponent.

Stiles scrambled up to his knees and shuffled to the corner of the room by the fire, trying to keep out of the way as he worked out how to free himself from the ropes still around his wrists. He saw the fire poker lying on the floor, and he reached his leg out, snagging it with his foot and pulling it closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Boyd threw his werewolf out of the open door and turned with a growl to the guy who had Erica pinned to the couch. Stiles scrabbled around behind him until his fingers caught on the poker and he lifted it up off the ground awkwardly, slipping it through his fingers until he found the pointed end. He knelt in the corner and worked the point into the knots of the rope, keeping his eyes on the floor in front of him, not wanting to distract himself from his task. After what felt like forever, he finally felt some give in his bindings, and he wriggled his arms until his wrists finally came loose. He slumped to the floor in momentary relief, dropping the poker in favour of rubbing the circulation back into his hands. A ripping snarl followed by a rage filled shout suddenly echoed around him and his head shot up, looking for the source.

Stiles had a quick glimpse of Derek slicing his claws through the throat of the main Alpha and turn in his direction before his vision was filled up with the image of Jerry bearing down on him. Stiles scrabbled backwards, his hands behind him as he tried to find purchase to help haul himself up off the ground, but he was too late. Jerry lunged for him, fangs fully extended and claws reaching for his neck once more as he landed on Stiles' legs, fetid breath slamming over his face.

_“No! Stiles!”_

The whole world seemed to go silent as Stiles stared up at the face hovering over his, mouth drawn back in a snarl even as the eyes glazed over. He looked down at the scant inches separating his body from the werewolf on top of him, his eyes taking in the poker in his hands, blood dripping down onto his chest from where he had shoved the heavy length of iron right through Jerry's chest.

And then the poker was being ripped from his hands as Jerry's body was pulled off of him, and then Derek was there, his fingers pushing into Stiles' chest as he searched for the source of the blood. Stiles saw out of the corner of his eye as Erica slid to her knees beside Isaac as he lay crumpled on the floor, heard the thumps and snarls from outside as Boyd fought off the last remaining werewolf, felt the sharp pain of relief flood through himself as he realised that it was over, that they had _won._

But none of those things seemed as important as the frown pulling at Derek's eyebrows, the worry in his eyes and in his voice as he asked Stiles over and over where he was hurt, his fingers flying over his chest and down his arms and up to his throat.

Oh. _Oh._

“Derek. _Derek._ ” Stiles grabbed Derek's hands with his own and pushed him back, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “I'm fine, the blood isn't mine. It _isn't mine,_ Derek.” Derek's fingers gripped tight around his, squeezing once and holding for a second, as his eyes closed and a shuddery breath left him. Stiles held on until those blue-green eyes tripped back up and met his. “I'm fine,” he said again, his voice quiet but clear. Derek looked at him hard, his jaw unclenching as he nodded once and moved back.

“It's done. They're all dead.”

Stiles looked up to see Boyd standing in the open doorway, blood dripping slowly from some deep slashes in his arm but looking otherwise okay. On the other side of the room, Stiles saw Erica help Isaac into a sitting position as he whimpered slightly, his arm held at an odd angle across his chest. Stiles shuddered slightly. It could have been a lot worse.

“Erica can take Isaac back, set his arm for him. I'll bury the bodies, clean up here.” Boyd nodded once at Derek and then moved to grab the closest dead werewolf, the main Alpha Derek had killed. Stiles realised idly that they'd never learned any of their names. Except Jerry.

Erica smiled at Stiles as she helped Isaac towards the door, his good arm slung over her shoulder. “You did good, Stiles. I didn't think it would work, but it turns out your talking is good for something.”

Stiles stared. “What?” He said finally.

“All your talking,” Boyd said as he heaved the body over his huge shoulders. “Kept these guys from hearing us coming. Gave us the element of surprise. Erica's right, we couldn't have done it without you.”

Stiles just stared; he wasn't used to praise coming from the werewolves in his life. Well, except Scott. And Derek that one time. “Wait. How are any of you even here right now? Isn't it the full moon tonight?”

Isaac paused in his limping across the room and looked back at him. “We've been able to control ourselves for a while now. It's still hard, but we can do it if we need to.” he hissed as his arm knocked into the door, and Erica rolled her eyes and guided him out of the cabin.

Stiles pulled himself up onto his feet and took a deep breath, forcing himself to look down at the body of Jerry lying next to him. He had done that. He had just killed an Alpha werewolf with a poker through the heart. He thought he might feel a twinge of guilt, but he felt nothing but relief. And a little bit of savage pride too, and possibly some smugness. 

Derek stalked out of the cabin, and Stiles followed subconsciously, shuddering as the cold night air hit his bare skin. He kept following as Derek walked back behind the cabin and through the woods, grateful for the moonlight lighting the way so that he didn't do something stupid like fall over a tree root. That would just put a damper on his fabulous exit. The trees eventually thinned and Stiles stumbled out onto a small dirt track, nearly bumping into Derek's Camaro where it stood gleaming in the darkness. Derek unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat, and Stiles suddenly realised that the werewolf hadn't said a word since the cabin. He shrugged, still buoyed up by his apparent invaluable help in taking down an Alpha pack, and got into the passenger seat, turning up the heat as Derek turned on the engine.

The drive back into town was silent and uncomfortable. Several times Stiles opened his mouth to say something, anything, to fill the awkward silence, but each time he snapped his jaws shut again, for once having nothing to say. Well, he had things to say, Stiles always had things to say, but this time the words kept jamming in his throat.

Derek pulled up right outside his house, his Jeep sitting on the driveway, door half closed from where the Alpha had grabbed him as he'd pulled up after school. Stiles looked over at Derek, but Derek stared through the windscreen, his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. Stiles opened his mouth to say something once more, but then thought better of it and sighed, opening the door and stepping out. He had barely closed it behind him when the engine roared and Derek drove off, leaving Stiles with nothing but a scattering of dust over his shoes.

“See you around!” He yelled at the disappearing tail lights. “Sourwolf,” he muttered to himself as he walked over to his Jeep and pulled out his school bag, rummaging around for his keys. He let himself into the dark interior of his home, sending a prayer of thanks to God for once again making sure that his Dad had been working the late shift and hadn't been around to see his Jeep sitting abandoned on the driveway.

He headed straight to the bathroom, peeling off his t-shirt that had gone crusty and sticky with werewolf blood and throwing it straight into the trash. His jeans should be okay, there were only a few splatters of blood and scuffs of dirt across the knees, so he threw them into the washing pile and turned on the shower. He scrubbed gingerly at his neck and arms, his wrists red and raw from spending hours bound with the rope, his throat sore from the new claw pricks added to the small scars already there. He cleaned off as quickly as he could and stepped out of the shower, rubbing himself dry and pulling on a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He'd long since started leaving some of his clothes in the bathroom cupboard for nights like these, not wanting to drip blood into his bedroom if he absolutely didn't have to.

He smiled to himself as he crossed the hallway, thinking about how he could tell Scott tomorrow that the threat of the Alphas was finally gone, that they could start spending time together again now that they no longer had to pretend that there was only one werewolf pack in town.

He totally wasn't surprised to feel two strong hands grabbing his arms as he felt himself being slammed into his bedroom wall.

Derek's hands moved up over his shoulders to Stiles' throat, thumbs pushing his chin up so he could inspect the wounds there. 

“Derek-” Stiles grabbed at Derek's wrists, pulling on them to make him loosen his grip slightly.

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek pushed Stiles' chin to the side, letting the light hit his neck so he could see better.

“Derek, would you just... I told you, I'm _fine!_ ” Stiles twisted against him, pushing his back further into the wall. Derek's fingers pressed against the pulse point in his neck, thumbs sliding up over his jaw. “Derek,” Stiles said again, but stopped as Derek finally looked up at him and all the air rushed from the room.

Derek growled and pushed forward as his hands tightened around Stiles, and then suddenly his lips were pressed against his. Stiles let out a startled moan and his hands slipped from Derek's wrists to grab handfuls of his shirt, reeling him in closer as his lips parted to feel a hot tongue sliding against his own. One of Derek's hands slid into his hair as the other trailed down over his shoulder to his waist, fingers digging in as he slid a knee between Stiles' legs, swallowing down the gasp that fell from Stiles' lips. And Stiles didn't want it to end but he found that he needed to breathe and so he wrenched his mouth away from Derek's, both of them panting heavily in the semi darkness of the room.

*****

“So, that happened.” Stiles said after a long moment, his shaking voice belying the easy confidence of his words.

Derek didn't say anything, just stared down at Stiles' lips, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd just done.

“So,” Stiles drew out the word, waiting for Derek to say something, anything, or maybe even to glare at him before disappearing out the window like the grumpy ninja he is. “Do you think it might happen again?” He asks, and watches as Derek's gaze darts up to meet his. “Because, well, I wouldn't really be averse to it happening again, I might even go so far as to say I'd possibly even like it to happen again, but if you're not into it then that's totally fine too, I just thought I'd lay the option out there in case you were wondering if -”

 _Shut up, Stiles._

Derek thinks it, doesn't say it. Because his lips are too busy pressing against Stiles' again, his tongue already licking into his mouth before the words can form. He hears Stiles' gasp and quiet moan against his lips, feels him cant his hips involuntarily against his knee, and he wonders why the hell he hadn't been able to figure this out earlier. 

Stiles' fingers clutch harder in his shirt, pulling him closer, and Derek's hand on his waist slips lower without him thinking about it, needing to get closer.

Stiles pulls away for a moment, his clenched hands still keeping him close, a slight grin turning up the corners of his mouth as he presses their foreheads together. 

“I knew you liked my ass.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” This time he does say it, but they're the last words either of them say for a long while.


End file.
